Show No Quarter
by BackwardEDGE
Summary: Because they are soldiers, and that goes for anyone who steps foot on a battlefield. -[REWRITE]-
1. Twisted Lands

**-[|**** Show No Quarter ****|]-**

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**Disclaimer:  
**\- TES: Skyrim related characters and content all belong to Bethesda.  
\- "Barnabas Quintillus" and other original characters belongs to BackwardEdge. Steal my boy, and I shall evoke wrath upon thou with a rusty carrot peeler! ... _Not sure why you'd want him, anyway..._

**The Author's Note of Notifying Notification:  
**

So this, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a redo of the previously completed-but-not-quite-finished storyline, Show No Quarter. It will be the same, of course - but it won't. This is why:

\- _Spelling and Grammar_ : To fix those distracting typos and hasty Spell Checker fails. Fails that nobody likes to come across, never mind read repeatedly.  
\- _Appearance_ : This is to make this look a little more appealing, and to hopefully distract you from the above when they do ultimately happen ._.  
\- _Plot and Lore_ : I'm gonna fix all that - hopefully, SnQ will be a little more smoother flowing in regards to storyline then before.  
\- _Extra Content_ : Like most writers, I have ideas. I want to put ideas in, without ruining the whole thing for you guys. Hence, this.

In other words, fasten that safety belt, keep your arms in the carriage at all times - and enjoy the ride. Feedback is always appreciated.  
\- BackwardEDGE, Over and Out.

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**-[|**** Show No Quarter ****|]-**

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"Discipline is simply the art of making the soldiers fear their officers more than the enemy."**  
**\- _Claude Adrien Helvetius._

_-[| SnQ |]-_

**| Part I : **Legate of the Second Cohort |

**| Chapter I : **Twisted Lands |

What now remains of the Fourth Legion's Fifth Century is encamped in a patchy clearing of good size, a few miles south-east from the little village of Karthwasten. Well, the locals call it a little village, but in reality it was a hamlet - precisely one of the reasons why the encampment was placed here to begin with. The Legionnaires would receive no bother or interruption from such a small populace. That, and the clearing itself was a short walk away from the river and protected at two sides by the developing mountainside. The Legionnaires here had pushed from the city of Solitude with numbers over eighty strong, but now after a bloody skirmish with the Stormcloak Rebels, there is little over fifty and these beaten men and woman are dosing.

If they were stationed anywhere else, perhaps they could have welcomed sleep, however the Reach gives no such luxury. These twisted lands are debilitating mentally as they are physically, and the whole area just feels... wrong. It leaves even the most hardened of Legionnaires glancing over their shoulders at the most innocent of noises; a breed of anxiety that they are not familiar with. Adding this to the constant threat of attack, the uneasy exposure and the recent tales of mythical monsters and burning towns, it's no surprise that these soldiers cannot simply let their guard down enough to sleep.

It's a problem, a considerable one. After all, most soldiers, no matter their flag, learn to catch sleep even in the most dire of circumstances. Getting a good few hours rest is a luxury you cannot often afford out here.

The News regarding the sacking of Helgen has spread like wildfire over the past week and a half, so much so, that even the most primitive corners of Skyrim have heard the news. For those survivors involved however, it's just another reminder, another pressing annoyance. Every story surrounding the attack is somehow different; a blend of not-quite truths, shouldn't-be truths, exaggerations and downright sheep's piss that blend to make an uncomfortable retelling.

The Second Cohort's Legionnaires in particular know of only a few men to escape Helgen; Their commanding Legate happens to be one of them - and that man in particular is not one for telling stories.

The Legate, Barnabas Quintillus, known to the majority of the Fourth Legion as 'the Tactician', had taken complete command over the Fifth Century a week after the events in Helgen. He had arrived at their encampment with only the necessities and freshly healed burns promising incomprehensible strife. With naught but an order, he had whisked them off into the Reach. Not many people can go through all that and come back after a mere week - but they are at war, a fact that the Second Cohort in particular are well familiar with, because there is none better then Quintillus to remind them.

General Tullius calls the Legate 'Reliable', but the Legionnaires know the difference between simple reliability and terrifying battlefield brilliance. When Legate Quintillus looks at his men, he sees numbers - he sees soldiers, nothing more and certainly nothing less. In his eyes, they are not quite expendable, but not quite cherished either. He's the man to lead them to their fate at any rate and not bat an eyelid. Of course, he may not like it - he may argue until he's blue in the face with the General about it later on, but in the Second Cohort there is one rule above them all. A rule that Quintillus has personally beaten into his Legionnaire's heads from day one:

Orders are Orders, and they to be obeyed.

And the Second Cohort's Legate does so nigh on religiously, without fail, every time. It's one of few traits he allows his men to see.

The man is a soldier, through and through. If there was anything beyond a uniform, a head for tactics, a strong sword arm and a commanding tone - then they had yet to see it. He's not a leader one could easily look up and relate too, in fact, if the Legionnaires wanted someone like that, it would have to be their current Centurion.

Because Barnabas Quintillus he wouldn't - he couldn't - relate to them even if he tried. After all, he's not there to be a friend.

The man himself; Legate Thaddeus Barnabas Quintillus of the Second Cohort, The Second Lieutenant, The Tactician, stands directly perpendicular to his tent, overlooking a major decline in land. The scene stretched out before him is rugged, empty, foreign, and he contemplates it with his arms folded across his armoured torso and a scowl upon his face.

He stands in silence, per usual, even when Centurion Ausonius approaches from behind and when he's within an acceptable distance, the younger man clicks his heels, to which the Legate nods. Many men regard to Quintillus with as much respect as any other Legionnaire, just without the parade ground flair. It's one of the few things they've come to like about the man. The most their Legate asks for is the completion of his orders, the meeting of his expectations and perhaps a salute now and again. There is no need for petty admiration in the Legate's mind - they can save that for the decorated old boys back home when they've put this bloody rebellion into the ground.

"Did you hear the news then?" Ausonius asks, his voice is carried away and it echoes against the sharp cliff faces. Quintillus ticks his head to the left; as of late he's heard a lot of things. There is a series of shouts behind them, Legionnaires moving about, clanking armour and boots slapping against mud. There's the faint sound of, well, Skyrim in the background, a general air of wilderness. "The Dragonborn has signed up - the Auxiliaries are practically rejoicing."

That gets a reaction from the Legate. Grunting, he considers the thought for a moment and he shifts slowly to clench his pipe between his teeth as he does so. It's a complex mix. He's largely indifferent, yet at the same time, he's very much swayed by the news.

"Not as a regular, I hope." He finally replies, running a hand against the shortly cropped hair above his ear and glancing sideways at his Centurion. The man's accent cuts clear through the air, sounding odd in this Nordic Fatherland. "We need trained soldiers, not more Nordic barbarian farm boys."

"Farm _girls_."

"I'm sorry, Centurion?"

"The Dragonborn is a farm _girl_."

The Legate turns somewhat, glancing once at the two Praetorian guards perched near his tent. They look back at him, per usual, stood like stone sentinels. There had been four of them before, but the Stormcloaks had cut two of them down as they dove in to protect their Legate. Something that Quintillus is unspokenly grateful for. "She's a Nord."

"Aye, Sir." Ausonius nods, statements like this he's grown accustomed to. It's not like the Legate is being intentionally racist - they couldn't even call it _racism_, really. He wouldn't punish a Nordic Legionnaire more then a Cyrodiilic one. It's just another mode of identification in the Legion.

"She's an Auxiliary." Again, Barnabas Quintillus falls silent. He's had no need for folk tales before, he has no need for them now. If the Auxiliaries are happy about it, then that's all good and dandy. Morale is good, he supposes, but morale's morale at the end of the day. "It's one more uniformed soldier, another name in the pyramid of military hierarchy, nothing to become exited about."

"Of course, Sir."

And that is the end of the conversation.

The two stand in silence for a moment longer, side by side, analysing the land before them with dull interest. A south blowing wind pushes against them, disrupting the Legate's hair in a way that results in the wavy overgrown curls clinging to his forehead gleefully. The man himself sighs, pushes them away, before passing his hand over his head to rub at the muscles just below his neck. But then, there comes a shout from further down the encampment and the Legate suddenly freezes, and then slowly turns on the heels of his boots. His expression blanks and the only indication of worry is the slight narrow of his eyes. Somewhat disturbed, Ausonius turns also, watching his Legate for any indication to what was going on.

"Did you hear that?" The Legate asks, slowly, his tone harder then before.

"Sir?" Ausonius questions and the Legate answers this by holding his hand up, the other curling around the hilt of his sword. On unspoken command, the two Praetorians form around him. They are uneasy and they clutch their swords, scanning the area. The Legate slowly shifts forwards, hesitating, completely alert.

Then it hits them.

_"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!"_

Worry exploding into full blown panic, everyone snaps towards the vague direction of the declaration. The Legate doesn't have to order, "To Arms Legionnaires!" Ausonius barks across the encampment and the order is repeated, shouted across by person after person until there is naught but a clatter of armoured soldiers, boots and then, the sudden clash of swords against primitive sharpened bone. The Legate draws his own sword with simple instinct, running forwards to grab the edge of his officer's helmet. He pulls it over his head, the shaped metal fitting snugly as he swoops his sheild up soon afterwards and attaches it to his forearm with practiced efficiency.

"Retreat." He orders, firmly. Fully armoured and ready to go, he examines the encampment, his gaze darting across the scene with a frenzied sense of urgency. "We're sitting targets. Fall back towards Karthwasten," When Ausonius doesn't immediately react, he barks. "_MOVE_!"

Crawling through dips and crevices, the Reachmen - commonly known as Forsworn, come spilling into the encampment from the far right. Twisting and bending through the lines of tents, they scream loudly, constantly, adding to the roar of noise. They are a bigger threat then the Stormcloaks, and for one reason. The Stormcloaks, while comparable to barbarians at their base, they still had some form of human conscious. You can count of them hesitating, for the glimmer of emotion, fear mainly, to show. With the Forsworn however, the Legion would be better off facing against an army of half-starved sabre cats. There is nothing but a degree of relentless, blood curling madness bunched up in a vaguely humanoid shape.

As to illustrate his point, a scrawny Forsworn runt comes speeding towards the Legate. Dressed in naught but a series of pelts and an animal skull for a headdress, he dives under the legs of the first Praetorian, much to the alarmed surprise of the second. The Reachmen then makes to go for the Legate's jugular with, disturbingly, his teeth. However the Legate had quickly predicted this, and with a change of stance and a solid shove, the Forsworn was met with a shield to the face and a swift decapitation. The sharp edged officer's blade easily slicing though the jugular, bone and skin with little more then a blood spurt and the heavy thunk of the runt's body crumpling to the ground.

The Legate raises his eyebrows from under his helmet and looks towards his Praetorians. Although he'd be surprised if they managed to see past his helmet, his expression changed as if to state 'really?' and he squares his shoulders, powering on forwards. "Don't hesitate," He tells them as he does so, taking point. "_They_ certainly won't."

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**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

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The whole thing does not go well in the slightest.

They loose well over then a dozen Legionnaires trying to pull out of the encampment and the Legate himself can only watch as a further six more die in a last ditch attempt to get to Karthwasten. The Forsworn know the land better then the Legion could ever hope to and with this deep understanding of the Reach, they come in from all kinds of places. Reachmen pop up from under branches, from behind rocks, between trees, over boulders and through the gaps in the land. Spilling out from all angles, the Legionaries realise early on that they can only run and find some kind of defensible position. The Legate doesn't fare any better, after getting caught out by an archer hidden behind a collection of bushes, he has to pull one of his dying Praetorians behind a boulder, hiding the man's body by kicking a bunch of leaves over him as a last resort. Least the Forsworn find him and dismember the poor sod for decoration, or something equally horrifying.

After a good three mile dash for safety, they do find defence eventually. It's cut into the surrounding lower mountainside. While usually they order themselves according to rank, with the Auxiliaries and the Miles Gregarius at the front, making the first layer of a circle with the more important ranks inside, with the Legate and his men making up the core - the Legate instead orders the younger men towards the middle and puts his older, more experienced old soldiers at the front. The kids don't know when to block, when to move forwards or when to strike. The Legate is often regarded as stuck in his ways when he says that for every old soldier, tens or dozen of kids are killed in their place, but it couldn't be any further from the truth. When in a position like this - combat demands experience, understanding.

With so much as an exhale front the Legate, he forms up alongside his men up front.

Although he denies nor confirms the circulating rumour, he has a bit of a reputation for being half half cockroach. Back in Cyrodiil, it's often said that he just doesn't _die_.

The Legate himself doesn't like putting it to the test but sometimes he has to live up to reputation.

They move forwards against the onslaught slowly, firmly, bunched up with their shields raised upwards, packed up against one another shoulder to shoulder. One Legionnaire doesn't bring his shield upwards fast enough and he winds up with an arrowhead lodged into his skull, smack bang between his eyes. The man falls, heavy armour sinking into the developing mud with a squelch and a slightly younger male forms up in his place. Soon, the slow, steady marching Imperials clash with the perusing Forsworn, the frantic slashing of the Reachmen balanced out by the heavily defensive but sudden stabs of the men up front. It's hard to get an attack in, but the Legate calculates dutifully and manages to get a deep cut into a Reachmen's guts, disembowelling him as he falls. Another Legionnaire falls during this, the woman behind him moving grimly forwards. A native falls, he's replaced by about seven more. It's uneven, unbalanced.

Just like the land they are fighting in.

Soon, the attack begins to thin somewhat and the Legate narrows his eyes as he takes in their positions, their numbers and with a curtly presented order the Legionnaires push forwards suddenly. It must be startling, because the less insane of the Forsworn scramble backwards, up the hill and out of the way. Any remaining fear harboured by the Fifth Century is pushed away and for a long series of bloody minutes, the Legionnaires are just as animalsitc as their current advisories. They are not fighting for the Empire at this moment in time - they are fighting for their lives. They don't let up, even when hands are brought up in surrender. They can't. They just can't.

Eventually, the Legionnaires stop fighting and draw to a eventual standstill. The remaining Forsworn retreating back into the hills. They watch silently, doubled over and exhausted.

Slowly ambling forwards the Legate stops to stand some feet away from the rest of his men, panting, he swallows to find that his spit tastes like blood. A wipe of his mouth proves his suspicion. Who's blood it is, he doesn't quite know. Neither does he care. Right now, some part of him thinks that they aren't retreating at all. Losses or not, they came to disrupt what they believe to be intruders, and as he slowly turns to look at his crippled Century, it seems like they did just that. The Forsworn aren't known for having specific plans, no real order in how they accomplish their goals, they just kill and fall back, kill and fall back.

Kill his Legionnaires, then fall back.

Those Legionnaires who managed to survive look at him as he passes, his heart pounding heavily in his ears and the elaborate gold decorations on his armour running thick with crimson. Quintillus takes in each face as he glances back. He'd be lying if he said that he spent a lot of time with his Centuries, because he doesn't, but he's always had a sharp memory. It's a lost relic of the time before, a small part of his youth that has managed to fit amongst his elder's world of war and soldiers. He's spent a good week with these Legionnaires, and through subtle, silent observation, he can recognise their faces.

Not their names, though. He cannot bring himself to know their names.

In the Legion, a name means a story, it means a potential family back home, it means more then a soldier - and to Quintillus, it means a letter that has to be sent home, to be read by some unfortunate. It means that someone among his ranks won't be going home. In the Legion, a name means more then a loss of life, and that, the Legate will not - simply can not - comprehend. He knows their faces, however, he knows who's missing.

It hasn't gone well at all.

Sheathing his sword with a heavy hand, the Legate spies Ausonius collapsing heavily against grass to one side. Slowly, he approaches, his head pounding with a developing migraine - but he ignores that. That's not what's important right now. Through a bloodied nose and what looks to be a fatal stomach abrasion, Ausonius gives his superior a strained smile.

"Well, this is it for me, Sir." He states, voice gurgling. He manges to turn his head, but spitting is just asking for too much. So, the Centurion just opens his mouth to let the blood pour out instead. The Legate drops to his knees heavily beside him and pulls of his helmet, wincing when he realises just how bright everything has become. Slowly, he undoes the top of the man's uniform, pulling the plate off with a heave and without a word, he begins to bandage the wound slowly. Then he pulls of the Centurion's helmet as an afterthought, resting it beside him gently.

It won't keep the man alive for much longer, nothing will, but it will keep him relatively comfortable. The feeling of your innards falling out isn't something to be desired, after all.

"I'm not leaving you here," The Legate replies quietly and with this, he turns and nods towards his remaining Praetorian, who treks off slowly towards where the other Bodyguard is lay, likely dead. "There is no telling what the Forsworn will do to you all."

"We'll be dead." Ausonius says in the way of fitful argument and in response, the Legate gives him a strained half smile. He knows, but there is really no need to remind him at all. "The helmet," The younger man then says after a few moments of silence, his voice is barely more then a murmur, but the Legate's senses are acute. "Make sure my boy gets it, Sir."

Catching his breath, the Legate nods and without so much as a second thought, Quintillus pulls the Centurion over one shoulder. Slowly, the other Legionnaires move too, waiting for him. A glance acts as his unspoken order and with it, they slowly climb back towards the encampment.

Much to their surprise, there is a lot left over. Only a few things have been looted.

He stands silently as his men pack up the things, bury the fallen and scrounge what's left of their food and drink supplies, break the camp and collect up the gear. As it turns out, a lot of the horses had survived the attack, including the Legate's own. It's decided pretty quickly that they will be used to carry the equipment, leaving hands free to carry back the injured.

Eventually, once they have all formed up before him, the Legate calls his Century's number across the barren clearing. He does it for a few minutes, moving across and peering through the darker areas of the land.

"Fifth Century, this way!"

Eventually, he grimaces, turns on his boots and stands before them again, and then more softy: "Nobody else, Fifth Century?" He looks back towards the surrounding mountainside, silently hoping for a Legionnaire, any Legionnaire to come scrambling back out. He looks back to the faces of the survivors and then huskily, the Legate grimaces hard. "Is that all then?" And gives the order, "Number!"

The evening is cold, it was summer when they came up, when the Cohort was at around five hundred and sixty Legionnaires strong. Now, they all freeze in the developing winter weather, the evergreen leaves rustle around them, the voice of their Legate fluttering wearily. "One, two, three, four-" The Legate ceases twenty four men and he stops, quickly going over the number again as if he can't quite believe it. There is a long silence before he asks again, "Anyone else?" Another wait, a Legionnaire shivers in his mud soaked uniform. "Into tent groups-" But then he breaks off and just shakes his head, finally exhales slowly.

"Fifth Century, move out and march easy. To Solitude." The Legate's voice is quiet, but they know, even if they didn't happen to hear him. What else can they honestly do?

"I hate this place." Quintillus hears one of them mutter as they all walk past. He's pretty sure that the boy isn't the only one.

They had pushed from Solitude with eighty men, now there is twenty four.

And each and every one of them, they hate these twisted lands too.


	2. Honourable Protectors

**-|[ Show No Quarter ]|-**

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**Author's Note: **

\- Interesting fact number one; Harley actually doesn't belong to me, he is the wonderful creation of ~**Norsemungandr**. I'm just... putting him to good use, shall we say.

\- Interesting fact number two; the name "Hermanus"actually means "Army man". Fitting, Ne?

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"The soldiers that didn't come back were the heroes. It's a roll of the dice. If a bullet has your name on it, you're a hero. If you hear a bullet go by, you're a survivor."

\- _Bob Feller_

_-[| SnQ |]-_

|** Part I : **Legate of the Second Cohort |

|** Chapter II :** Honourable Protectors |

Although he can't recall as well as he would like, it strikes the Legate to realise that there was once a time where he was unaware of what war actually meant. That there was a time where he was unable to hold a sword correctly, never mind how to stab someone just below the ribs so the blade would refrain from getting jammed. It seems like a distant memory, all those years before the Imperial Legion. Now, after all these years, it's barely a flicker of recognition.

Thirty years on the battlefield. It's little over a lifetime.

Quintillus himself was only thirteen years of age when the Great War had begun. Back then of course, the Empire was riled, angry, and they all went in expecting nothing but a small invasion, perhaps a summer of war before the Dominion's inevitable surrender. Back then, Imperialism had been pretty much commonplace and everyone would shout and gloat and tell great stories. He did not get called up, of course, but Barney Quintillus had grown up with the Imperial Legion's oath on the tip of his tongue and he had a spirit of a fighter. He had been pretty big for his age, developed the physical elements of manhood faster then his peers, so in his eyes, he was ready.

Because the life of a soldier couldn't be much worse then a bartender's son, right?

Indeed, Barney Quintillus had joined the Imperial legion without so much as a second thought. Thirteen years old, and he had no other purpose in his eyes. After all, who wouldn't want to die for their Empire?

Well. Skip forwards thirty years and Barnabas only has to return to Cyrodiil to see that, in the civilian world, they were all as naive.

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**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

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With the creeping rise of the sun, swift ocean winds blow gently through the barren streets of Solitude, drifting through the cracks in the inn's doors, developing into a dull draft that swirls around in it's own individual cyclones. It's just turned early winter and little deciduous foliage there was in the first place has just finished shedding itself free of leaves. It's this coastal air that adds a distinct chill to the local area - in fact, until noon when the sun is at is peak, it's much colder in comparison. Thankfully however, this chilling bite is kept at bay by the Winking Skeever's spitting fire, so it's closer to here that they sit. Directly beside the flames so they can keep warm, but hidden away in order to avoid those damned questioning civilians.

"Well old boy," Legate Adventus Caesennius grumbles, "Sounds like a really bad do." he's a man's man, Caesennius, however with a certain flair that is typically unseen with soldiers. Manicured, but Naugahyde-tough. He's half interested in a mug of ale and half interested in brooding, collapsed up against the table heavily, chin propped up against his palm.

He's actually the better off out of the two, because his equally ranked companion is far more worse for wear. Quintillus decides to sit slouched against the back of his chair, ignoring his half glass of Cyrodilic brandy in it's entirety in order to completely concentrate on brooding. He's not in a good mood; he has not right to be.

Barnabas Quintillus had arrived with his decimated Century half a day ago, the gates of Solitude had opened up and the questioning faces of the Civilian populace had acted as their welcome. It's nothing but unwarranted attention. In fact, to anyone who is involved, it's a bloody curse. First it was that whole mess in Helgen and now it is this. The Legionnaires involved are having to deal with all the questions, the speculations, the rants and the patriotic comments close to constantly since they've arrived. One man had the gall to call them 'Comrades' and really was the limit. Quintillus had retreated to the inn before he could lose his temper. Unfortunately, he's still in his armour - or rather, what remains of it - and his bandaged wounds are on show again, so all the questions are in full force.

You know, those men in a footman's uniform don't have to deal with it. Sick a few shiny bits of metal on him and apparently, Quintillus is a sodding celebrity.

With a noncommittal noise of irritation, Quintillus shakes his head. All he really want's to do right now is return to the castle. However, right now, he's not one hundred percent sure where he stands - and he doesn't like that. That's unnerving. On one hand, he's very much desperate to return, to fall back into the uncomfortable but familiar embrace of Castle Dour and it's constant military presence. Yet on the other hand, he's downright terrified of doing so. Terrified of the General, not because of what happened, per say, but well...

"I've got my Centurion's blood on my hands..." Quintillus slowly brings his hands up to rest against the tabletop as some kind of evidence, while intending to be a metaphorical statement, it's also quite literal. There's crusted blood under his fingernails still. "I don't..." He sighs, "I don't know what to think about that." He pauses, attempting to assemble that whole sentence in his head. The whole thing tastes sour on his tongue, it's foreign, wrong and Quintillus shakes hsi head abruptly again, running his good hand through his hair. He's lost men before, but that was to the Elves, or to the Stormcloaks.

Not to... not to _animals_.

It's just another thing to think about and at this moment in time, Quintillus wanted nothing to do with idle comprehension. He just wanted to sink back into the regimented routine of a soldier. Not pondering, just doing. Acting, reacting. Following orders. It's what he's here for.

Caesennius exhales through his nose slowly, regarding his drinking buddy with a appraising eye. "By the Eight..." he takes another swig of his drink "Was it that bad?"

Following the other Legate's example, Quintillus raises his own glass slowly, carefully, as not to agitate the wounds on his torso. "The attack, or the aftermath?" he then replies, in the corner of his eye, he spots one of the working girls leaning further against the bartop, attempting to listen in, or something along similar lines. He scowls.

This makes Caesennius shrug and he ignores the curious glances as they are sent in their direction, "I'm not sure."

A period of silence follows the comment and Quintillus diverts his gaze towards the window. The hours of early morning have brought along a drizzle, light raindrops ping down against the stained glass, sliding down to fall against the windowsill that rests just beside the Legate's shoulder. The wood is damp, slightly rotting in the corners and he can feel the draft through the rips and openings in his armour. It's details like this that make this place pretty uncomfortable, but the drink is good.

With that in mind, Quintillus downs the rest of his. It's good Imperial stuff - heavily taxed, but Quintillus has access to these things with his position as Legate, and it's one of the few luxuries he often abuses. Cheap knockoffs simply won't cut it for him, he doesn't know how the others do it. Smirking, he traces the rim of his glass slowly.

Guess the war had managed to slay one demon.

"So old boy, what happens now?" Caesennius asks, he's just ordered another mug of ale, one of the barmaids pressing it down before him gently and with this, laurel green eyes flick away from the window and fixate on the other Legate's face. Another hesitation, and both men consider their drinks again.

Only Caesennius takes it up, Quintillus just frowns instead. They can't talk about it here - spies and all. That, and some part of Quintillus simply doesn't want to. "I'll be reporting to the General later this morning."

"And then?"

Quintillus shrugs, "I don't know." he looks down at the table, at the small droplets that had slid down the side of his glass, from where he had shrugged to hold his glass. "The fifth has a few weeks of leave."

This makes the other Legate frown, and he lowers his mug for a moment, considering. "Only a few weeks?" he asks, "Only a few- half of them were, well, half dead, old boy."

The reply comes quicker then Quintillus originally expected.

"We are at war, Caesennius."

The reminder is unnecessary too, but it stirs something within the two Imperial Legates. It's not their place to think about such things, they have orders and they will follow them. The war is back on, as they say. Reachmen or not. There are still the Stormcloaks to contend with... and the locals.

It's about time that they realised it, Quintillus supposes.

They sit in silence for a long time. Often then not, they do not speak other then what is considered necessary. It's something that nobody really understands, _well _that being said, a few people do. Rikke and the General, Harley and all the other veterans too, they all understand - because a lot of the time, they are the same. They have nothing to talk about, and as terrible as it sounds, it's a relief for them all. He doesn't want to talk to Caesennius, and Quintillus being Quintillus, he's certain that Caesennius doesn't want to talk to him either. It's not out of dislike, not at all, it's just that they share a lot of things that are bound up in so much pain that it's simply easier to ignore it all.

They don't have to talk either, don't need to. Quintillus and Caesennius are like brothers in the respect that they can sit in silence and be completely comfortable in one another's presence.

Caesennius finishes his drink and immediately orders for another one. He's on leave at the moment, three days in and apparently, he's decided that he's going to spend it in here. So he continues to drink to his content. Quintillus however decides that it's much better to keep to a strict minimum. One drink in good company is enough and he shakes his head in silent decline when the barmaid returns to their table. Reporting to the General, intoxicated, would be a bad idea.

Time drags on slowly and the sun persists in rising over the nearby rooftops, it's since stopped raining and the sounds of chatter pools outside. When they both glance upwards again, the rays of light are much thicker, people begin to enter and another working day rolls forwards.

"Best get going," Quintillus mutters, downing the last dregs of his drink and standing carefully. "Now you take care of yourself, Adventus."

"And you too, old boy, take care." Caesennius stretches his hand out and they shake firmly, though as Quintillus pulls away, there is a hesitant lasting glance. Gods, who knows - perhaps that would be the last time they ever shake hands. You can never be too sure of anything in times of war, after all.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

Quintillus is in his element when he's on the battlefield - but not for the reason most people think. It's not because he's a soldier, but rather, because he's a stratagist.

A few years ago, a passing politician noticed Quintillus' inherit intelligence, his ability to look upon a scenario, a puzzle and work backwards from the end result, to discover the original truth, no matter how shrouded in mystery it may be. She couldn't help but compare it to his work with the Legion, stating that the two jobs - the work of an investigator, and the work of a strategist - are alike. That he uses both of these processes to help him work.

Personally, he thinks her wrong.

A investigator sees an end to the means and they do not require a rival to work; they can achieve their greatness without any assistance in the slightest.

A strategist does none of the above, because a strategist is only capable of moving forwards. As a strategist, a tactician, Quintillus does not solve puzzles - if anything, he creates them. When he's stood in a map room, stood behind an evaluation desk looking over his advancing men or fighting with said advancing men - he only sees a means to an end. He needs a rival to achieve his greatness - one who is a equal, or someone greater in skill. Nothing is ever earned from defeating a weaker opponent.

In his opinion, a strategist and a investigator is the core of a duel between two individuals. One presents a puzzle that the other must solve.

Quintillus knows they are alike in many ways - but he is never both at the same time. That would create more problems then it would solve; instead of working against his enemy, he'd be fighting against himself. Within the Legion, he is required to work with an overwhelming desire to achive victory. That's how war works. He does not see puzzles, in the Legion, he sees battlefields. He will find a way to achieve victory with the very best strategy he can think off, regardless of how limited his resources are.

But, Quintillus is still a thinker - and when he doesn't have a battle to win... he can't help himself.

He can't help but notice that Solitude was far different then the rest of Skyrim.

If anything, the life of a soldier is a diverse one. You march from place to place, area to area, continent to continent, province to province, spending months away from home - or, if you're Barnabas Quintillus, twenty odd years.

That's what they say, the recruiters. Join the Imperial Legion, travel the world, meet interesting people.

... and then, often enough, kill them.

But that's not the point.

Quintillus himself had seen numerous places, towns and villages. The majority of them had been within Cyrodiil's own boarders, least the Thalmor ever tried to attack again. Indeed, after spending many a year there, the Legate remembers Cyrodiil whether he cares to like it or not.

Solitude reminds him of Cyrodiil. He notices the little details as he walks through the city, the links - the similarities. Typically, it is very much a Nordic city, yet at the same time, it's infrastructure, it's people, it's sheer vibe - it's so Imperialist. It's heavily influenced. For the Imperials, it's a taste of what they consider home, but for the Nords, it's a taste of the Empire that they're part of. Honestly, after thirty something years, it startles him how little everything has changed. It's all the same attitudes, the same responses and ideals. Even in Skyrim, everything is so damn similar to the Cyrodilic Empire that it makes him _sick_.

Quintillus doesn't like Cyrodiil, home province or not. It's civilized and safe and grand and it remains so at consistency - but it's all the same. Filled with the same nameless, faceless generic degenerates who will likely smile and wave and pretend to understand. They call them heroes.

He's not a hero.

"No need to congratulate anybody for killing anyone." He had told his father, gritting his teeth and standing in the ceremonial dress uniform of a Centurion when he grudgingly visited for his uncle's burial close to twenty years ago.

He had repeated that very same line to his then-Legate when he had returned to the ranks, and she had just shaken her head.

"I know."

He doesn't like Skyrim any more then he does Cyrodill either. It's uncivilized, and dangerous, tedious, frustrating and _cold_ at the best of times, but, when he takes a step back and puts it all into perceptive, it fits. These Nords are a stubborn, zealous lot who hold their expectations and customs with a sort of fire he can't understand, but a lot of them, they understand. The Great War left a lot of refugees behind - and he's not talking about the people who lost their homes to catapult fire or raiding Justiciers. No. A lot Skyrim's kinsmen know the hardships of war and they will either hate you, despise you with all their heart, or they will accept you for it. But they will never love you, glorify you for bringing war to their homeland, no matter how you appear.

Quintillus as a general rule, decidedly dislikes most things, but he'd be lying if he ever said that he didn't have some form of fondness for this horrible, terribly mediocre province.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

All of the creeping worries from earlier began to fade the closer he drew to the Fourth Legion's headquarters; the formerly disused military keep known as Castle Dour. He doesn't exactly know why, but he takes a form of comfort in the strict order amalgamating around him, the tall dull walls, the matching tents packed together side by side in the parade ground. This feeling only intensified when he moved inside, the doors opening for him as he marches purposefully towards his intended destination. This Castle's décor, like most buildings occupied by the stringent Imperial Legion, just screamed of military order. The hallways were bare aside from the essential torches providing light, the barracks in the opposite wing would be stark - clean for the impending threat of inspection and all the other rooms were boring to those who did not know how to make the best out of little. The only decorative element was the occasional banner - a reminder of who you are fighting for. If it was useful, it was kept, if not, it was discarded, re-homed to a place were it would. It's this sense of need before want that Quintillus found pleasing.

Because it's closest to his own quarters, the General often tends to matters in one of the smallest of map rooms and it's here that the Legate finds him. Compared to the rest of the keep, this room is warmer, brighter too thanks to the recently lit candles, but it bore the same initial impression of order - despite actually being far from it in general appearance. The table and even some of the chairs are littered with papers, many of which have yellowed with age but others where freshly pressed, neatly ordered and piled amongst the chaos. As he walks by, Quintillus notes that one of the candles is giving of a smell unfamiliar to him and it's unpleasant, but he does nothing about it. Instead, he stops at a respectful distance away from the General, glancing coolly at his Praetorians, who walk off to stand amongst the General's own security.

General Tullius does not acknowledge the Legate straight away, but rather continues to lean against the table, lent up against his knuckles, engrossed in a few papers spread before him.

The General is not a big man, in fact he only just reaches past Quintillus' shoulders, but right here, right now, stood in that armour, he's completely and utterly in charge. Despite the hour his uniform is perfectly immaculate, hair pushed forwards, combed into a typical conservative Imperial style, but, Barnabas being as observant as he is empathic, he picks up on subtle details that a lot of other people just ignore just on instinct. Despite the attempt at spotlessness, when the General looks up, he notices that man's eyes are dark, ringed by faint shadows that practically screamed a recent string of sleepless nights.

Again, he does nothing about it; he just slowly adjusts his stance. "General Tullius, Sir." the Legate greets, clicking the heels of his armored boots together and sending a fist into his torso, just above his heart. The man in question simply straightens ever so slightly, nodding in the way of silent acknowledgement. His posture softening, Quintillus glances around, idle confusion bubbling up when he notices that she's not-

"Rikke will be joining us later, I expect." the General suddenly grumps, waving a hand idly and eying the Legate with an unreadable look on his face. "She's taken one of her centuries to the Pale. I'll assume you weren't informed."

At this, Quintillus nods. The General has already read the written report regarding the Reach and he knows from experience that the following events can only go in two ways. One, the General will decide that it was indeed the Legate's fault and dress him down, getting in his face and challenging his judgement. Or, the second option will be that he doesn't know who to blame, or what to think and he will hear him out, wanting a fresh perceptive on matters. Quintillus wishes for the former - it's predictable, understandable. Right.

But, the slight slouch in the man's posture gives Quintillus all the evidence he needs. "Report, Legate." the older man orders quietly and the Legate shifts nigh on uncomfortably. "How many men?"

Because that's all it comes down too, really. How many men dead, how many letters sent home, how many helmets passed on to the next of kin, how many reserves that have to be pulled in to fill the ranks afterwards.

"A total of fifty six men," Quintillus replies, but his voice turns out to be nothing more then a hoarse murmur. So he swallows hard, grimaces and speaks louder. "Fifty six men, Sir."

The General blinks, then hardens his jaw.

"_That_, was the Forsworn."

There is a moment of silence and the Legate involuntary runs a hand over his face, knocking his helmet and sending it jerking to the left. One of the panels on the cheekpiece smashes into his nose, so he rips the whole thing off, disturbing his hair, before settling it on the table gently. Although neither man speaks, he can hear the unspoken concern. _If a bunch of half-witted savages could do that much damage..._

"Marcius' report suggests that the Fifth Century's original camp never saw any hostilities. Likelihood is, they saw us retreating form Karthwasten and decided to do something about it."

The General folds his arms.

"I don't see this becoming a thing, at any rate." Quintillus answers the unspoken question.

It seems to satisfy Tullius at any rate, because he looks back at the table. "And the Fifth's original camp?" there is the slamming echo of the doors being shut, followed by the faint scruff of Imperial leather boots unexpectedly catching on the flagstones underfoot behind them. Aside from that slight noise, there is _almost_ nothing to distinguish them by. But, it was a sound that both men know well – noiseless feet walking towards them.

"Dismantled as soon as I gave the order, the support corps have been move to Third. They'll join them when they move back to Solitude during the rotation. After that, it's just a matter of awaiting further orders."

The shadow of a person moves across the room, just towards Quintillus' left.

"Good. Have you seen the reports on White-" The General suddenly stops, glances up properly, chin jerking upwards. "Soldier." he suddenly greets and there comes a faint click of boots, shortly followed by another sound of a fist slamming into armour. Only this time, it's quieter - more controlled. There is only one person who General Tullius will willingly, in the sense of a gruff form of fondness rather then mode of identification, call 'Soldier'. Leaning forwards against the table and pulling a sloppily rolled up map towards him, the Legate turns his head to eye the condensed, baby-faced version of Tullius standing there.

"General, Sir." Harley Tullius, formally known as Hermanus Gaius Tullius II, better known as General Junior to Quintillus, replies. Stood in the armour of an Optimi Viri Sagittarii, he has his composite bow slung over one shoulder and curls a protective hand around the lower limb glancing at Quintillus as he does so, nodding. "Legate Quintillus."**  
**

The boy, well, he's not a boy anymore, not really - he's twenty now and Quintillus has to grudgingly admit, he's something of a looker too. He remembers how both his parents were, back before his mother died and Tullius succumbed to all the physical elements of twenty solid years of stress. Basically, there wasn't a more handsome couple in the whole Fourth Legion. Usually it's details like this that the Legate chooses to ignore and that, coupled with the fact that those years were some of the hardest, it's a wonder that he can remember what they were like at all. Harley favors his father more then his mother. So much so that it's downright terrifying. In fact, the only thing he's inherited it seems is her crystalline blue eyes and gentle demeanor. Give him a few years, and he could pass for the General's ghost.

But Quintillus isn't exactly running a beauty contest here, so he has absolutely no damn clue as to why General Junior is stood in the map room, when he's supposed to be a few hundred miles away with the rest of his Contubernium.

"Junior." He shifts slightly in the way of greeting, bringing his gaze over the boy and fighting a grimace. "And how are you?"

Harley just shrugs. "I'm well, thank you Sir."

He's lying, that, or he has a very different view on the definition of 'well'. From under the dark shadow of the Coolus-Manheim helmet there are bruises, scrapes. His bottom lip is split on the left hand side and although the Legate can't see the rest of his body, everything under the boy's neck being covered in the dark leather's of his uniform, he assumes that it's a similar picture. Something's given him a good beating and it must surprise the General because he suddenly bounds towards him, completely forgetting his role as the big bad General and grabbing his progeny's jaw, jerking it upwards. "What happened to your face?" he then demands, it's calm, with a mildness far more ominous than his usual snippiness.

Just like that, everyone else in the room feels pretty strongly that they'd rather be somewhere else.

General Junior doesn't move a muscle. He's not frozen up and Quintillus can tell from a mile off that he's not scared, or really that angry, but something in his manner has changed. He's always acted a little odd around the General - always, but recently, it's been far more noticeable. A different brand of... something. Usually, whenever Tullius crosses the line from superior towards actual parental territory, Harley reacts in a way that's pretty unconventional, but now...

It's turned into this quiet but unmistakably heavy power struggle. So much so, that something is going to give one day, that, Quintillus is pretty certain. He also has the distinct impression that he'll be the lucky one mopping up after that certain something does, even though he really doesn't want to, at all. It's not really his job to go around solving the boy's apparent daddy issues, but then again, Quintillus doesn't really know. He guesses that, with him, it kind of is. It defiantly would be, if anything happened to Tullius.

He doesn't like that.

But, he doesn't like a lot of things, and he can't say he blames either of them for it. It's not a scenario you can just fix with a snap of the fingers. Harley is desperate for something, anything, from his only remaining parent, a father he's been devoted to for pretty much all his life, who despite loving his son pretty desperately, hasn't been able to provide it because he's also one of six Generals trying to hold a crumbling military together - that because he's so wrapped up in it all, that he can't relate to his only kid, even if he tried.

Sometimes the Legion has to come before your family. Not always, but sometimes.

Guess, 'Sometimes' happens a bit more frequently for them.

Slowly, Harley backs down and sighs, deflating. "There was a bit more then old bones and cobwebs." he says, bluntly and wrenches his head back. The General lets go, backtracking a little and fixing his son with a particularly nasty sort of look. Harley is not fazed in the slightest. "The Dra-... The Auxiliary, she was sent ahead with crown. I'll write it up as soon as I have reported in."

"Yes," The General mutters, though with the news that they've reclaimed... what was that he said? A _crown_? The fiery aggression has cooled considerably, leaving him if only slightly riled. Tullius forces out a sigh, "Yes you will. Get those-" he waves in the general direction of his son's face, "looked at first, Soldier." Harley doesn't argue, but simply clicks his heels again. "Dismissed."

Quintillus doesn't hear or see him go, but he does feel Harley's absence like some kind of relief mixed with sudden emptiness. Instead, he meerly watches as the General griamces, leans up against the table again and clenches his hands. One look at the ashen, scunched up expression is all it takes before he twigs something up like the genius he is. Snapping his gaze down towards the map before him, the Legate reaches forwards and picks up a small red flag, twirling it around between his fingertips. "If Ulfric plans to move on Whiterun, he's even dimmer then I originally thought." he glances upwards, rubbing his lower jaw gently and the General fixes his gaze onto the Legate's own.

It doesn't take long for him to get distracted.

"Rikke seems hellbent on insuring me that he's raised enough men to attack."

Speak of the devil, said Legate Rikke comes in soon afterwards, eyebrows raised. She glances at Quintillus and it's clear that she's heard about the events in the Reach because she slams a hand into his upper shoulder, letting it hesitate for a few seconds before walking on. "You've seen the evidence sir. Every day more join his cause. Riften, Dawnstar, and Winterhold support him."

"Obviously." Quintillus grumbles, but he goes unheard.

The General hardens his jaw. "It's not _cause_, it's a _rebellion_."

"Call it whatever you like, General." Rikke half mutters, pulling her helmet off and shaking her hair a little. The dirty blonde braid is half falling out, clearly she's seen recent action. "The man's going to try to take Whiterun."

Quintillus' gaze snaps between the two of them, then at the map, then at Rikke again. "Jarl Balgruuf-"

But Rikke cuts him clean off, "-refuses the Legion's right to garrison troops in his city."

"Yeah," Quintillus agrees, "But he also refuses to acknowledge Ulfric's claim."

This makes the General grunt and he stands bolt upright, throwing his hands upwards. "Well, if he wants to stand outside the protection of the Empire, fine. Let Ulfric pillage his city." at the sound of this, Rikke looks as if she's just been smacked in the face. Quintillus meanwhile stifles a surprised bark of laughter and lowers his head when two sets of eyes lock on him.

"General-"

Tullius just scoffs. "You people and your damn Jarls."

"Oh, _wow_." Quintillus smirks, though quietly enough that neither of them hear him. While this is all very amusing, he doesn't want to get drawn into it. He'll probably make a fool of himself, as he often does when it comes to politics.

"Sir? You can't _force_ a Nord to accept help he hasn't asked for."

Tullius just slams the palm of his hand down against the tabletop, "If Ulfric's making a move for Whiterun, then we need to be there to stop him." despite the force of such an action, he's voice is calm. "We aren't exchanging pleasantries, we're preparing for an inevitable invasion." fixing his gaze on Rikke, he hesitates for a few seconds before making his decision. "Draft another letter with the usual platitudes, but this time share some of your intelligence regarding Ulfric's plans."

"You should embellish it," Quintillus adds unexpectedly, making both of them frown at him. "You know, make it seem like it's his idea."

It surprises them both, because usually he stays out of things like this. Completely. Sticking to the outskirts and only coming in when he's sure that he won't mess anything up. The General purses his lips, "Well. Aren't we adventurous?" he mutters "Never knew you had it in you."

To save face, Quintillus just leans forwards, his voice lowering "Perhaps you can take me to court next time, hm, Sir?"

That particular statement makes the General snort and Rikke rolls her eyes.

"Not on your _life_, Legate."

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

A few hours later and while Quintillus is looking over recent insurgent reports, there comes the sound of someone thundering down the steps. Alarmed, Quintillus' two Praetorians glance upwards, their hands slamming against the hilts of their swords. The Legate himself doesn't move, he's facing away from the doorway and to spin around would only pain his wounds further. That and he's been in the Legion for thirty years, he knows a Legionnaire's boots when he hears them.

Though he will admit, they sound... different, somehow.

Looking for any indication as to who it may be, the Legate frowns at the General, who gives off of those long, suffering looks that clearly says 'Oh, here we go again' and slowly stands up from where he was sitting. By the time he gets to the table, he's clasped his hands neatly behind his back and he's expressionless. It's that kind of look that Quintillus, being the old soldier that he is, recognises from his earlier days. The General is trying to set an impression. Trying to get across that he's not a man to be trifled nor messed around with. That he's a busy man, with important matters on his mind and therefore, doesn't take kindly to his time being wasted.

"I've got it!" It's an arrogant statement, chirpy with a level of unfamiliar that's beyond painful. Quintillus blinks, gives the General a look and then clenches his teeth.

There isn't even an "General Tullius" or even a "Sir" when the Auxiliary enters. Instead she just comes bounding in with her arm stretched out, something that immediately puts both the Legate and all the Praetorians in the room on guard. Only a few seconds later does he realise what said object is, or rather, he knows that it's blunt, so he's willing to allow it. Through the gaps in the cloth she has wrapped around it, he can see the dirt, alongside a lot of bone. Why, he has no idea. The General goes take it and as he does so, he gives his Legate a glance. It's a test of said Legate's usually unwavering obedience that he doesn't just go storming up to the girl ranting and raving.

And she is just a girl.

Rough estimation puts her between around twenty to twenty three winters at most, a little older then the Legate's youngest sister, perhaps. She's not tall, especially for a Nord but then again, Quintillus isn't the best person to compare heights - he himself being well over six foot when a lot of Imperials are generally in their middle fives. She's not as thin as a lot of her kinsmen either, a bit of a bruiser - well fed too. Enough to be a threat. Quintillus begins to run through a series of estimations and calculations and it's during this that she turns to him. She has freckles, he notes idly, alongside a certain... fire, in her gaze. One that the Legate remembers getting knocked out of him during training. His eyes narrow, scanning her face again.

He could have sworn...

The General deliberately walks into his peripheral vision and the Legate inclines his head, "Auxiliary." he greets, doing well to keep his voice neutral and out of sheer panic, he adopts the General's earlier posture.

Hesitating, she looks his armour over and nods at him. "Legate," she eventually replies and after a few seconds of tense silence, hastily adds the remaining word. "Sir."

Barnabas inclines his head, she doesn't salute, but he's never been one for making his subordinates salute. It's a sign of respect and trust, at the end of the day.

Then it hits him. He's defiantly seen her before. The General realises that Quintillus realises and turns towards the Auxiliary with a small grump, "Well. Excellent work, soldier. I have to admit, I had my doubts it even existed." He gives Quintillus a pointed look as he passes to stand at the head of the table. "Did you run into any any trouble?"

She was at Helgen.

She was a _prisoner_, at Helgen.

"Got a bit bashed around, but it was nothing we couldn't handle."

The General glances at the crown again, peering at it suspiciously, as if he's unsure if it will simply fall apart or suddenly rear up and bite him in the face. Quintillus meanwhile stalks off to one side of the room, luckily, she doesn't seem to recognise him and he steps around the table, pretending to busy himself with his maps so she won't get the chance to. As far as he is concerned, she's not a soldier. Therefore he can't predict her behavior. So, he'll just retreat to the sidelines and observe until he knows enough information to proceed forwards, after that, it's just a matter of planning accordingly and remaining seven steps ahead.

He should have been doing that back in the Reach.

Grimacing his eyes shut, the Legate slams his pile of reports onto the table with more force then what was strictly necessary. He _has_ to get over that.

"That's what I like to hear." The General mutters, his arms are folded over his torso and he scrutinises this... _Dragonborn_ carefully. She's not a soldier, but he made her an Auxiliary because he doesn't want her to be.

She's to young to be thrown into a civil war as a fully fledged Legionnaire, if the Legate is any indication as to how they end up. He's a bloody good soldier, yes - an exemplary tactician and combatant, but that's where it all ends. The Empire needs more then soldiers, he knows, and the reports he's had written up on her suggests that she's also friendly with the Jarls of this bloody country. It's an added bonus he doesn't want to loose.

"Now then... I need someone I can trust to deliver a message of great import to Jarl Baalgruf of Whiterun." The General seems to hate himself for saying this, because he starts it off hesitantly and he grimaces when he finally grits the words out. Quintillus raises an eyebrow at him, but otherwise says nothing. Taking the finely pressed letter from Legate Rikke off of the table, the General walks towards her. "We have it on good authority that Ulfric has raised enough men to attack the city. The Jarl, however, refuses the Legion's support..." he goes to hand it to her, "This missive should convince him." but he takes it away at the last second, holding it closer to him, eyes narrowed. "Be aware soldier, these documents contain sensitive intelligence for the Jarl's eyes only."

She nods, heavily, like a damn _child_. Quintillus rolls his eyes.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure he gets it."

"Good, now. Dismissed."

The girl hurries off in a whirl of oversized Nordic steel plate and unmatching Imperial shin boots with the General's - reluctantly offered - letter to the Jarl of Whiterun. As soon as she's rounded the corner and he hears the door slam shut, Quintillus takes a step back, considers his general pissed off scale... and settles on a good two-thirds up.

And then he explodes, because if the Legate is anything when he's angry, it's not smart.

"ARE YOU FUCKING _INSANE_?!"

The General raises an eyebrow, and then, his own voice. "I beg your pardon, _Legate_?" Putting his hands up in surrender, the Legate then points towards the direction she just left in.

"She's a prisoner!"

"Yes."

"Wh- and you've trusted her wit-"

"Legate, sometimes we've got to take chances."

"With the whole sodding war!?"

"Apparently."

Slamming both hands over his face before something in his head bursts from all the frustration, Quintillus sighs, then groans, then shakes his head.

Suprisingly, the General just half sighs. "I knew you wouldn't like it." but then he points towards a map, more accurately, at the Stormcloak camp in the Reach. "I want that camp wiped off the map, I've assigned you temporary command over Rikke's first cohort. In order to move supplies and reinforcements to Markarth, we need it doing soon."

_You do your job, I'll do my job._

Quintillus gives him a long suffering look and keeps it up for a good few minutes before buckling. Leaning over the table with a grunt, he pulls the map towards him and plucks that particular blue flag off the map, spinning around throwing it into the nearby fire.


	3. Deadly Strain of Professionalism

**-[| Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Aaaaaaand, I'm back.

I didn't intend for this wait to happen, but I got floored by a kidney infection. I don't expect any future upheavals, but to make up for my random bout of experiences, here is a chapter to make up for it.

I also find it interesting to note that a few people have difficulty perceiving Barnabas having a gentle, soft tone of voice. I guess it doesn't match - he's a big bad Imperial Legionnaire, but for those who are interested; I write Barnabas' dialogue as if Rick Pasqualone was voice acting for him. I guess we can call this Interesting Fact 3.

* * *

"When you have warfare, things happen; people suffer; the noncombatants as well as the combatants."  
\- _Emmeline Pankhurst_

_-[| SnQ |]-_

|** Part I : **Legate of the Second Cohort |

|** Chapter III : **Deadly Strain of Professionalism |

"Eggs and beef today, _who'da_ thunk it?" Harley says without malice as he walks towards Quintillus, a steaming mess-tin clutched in one hand and, like always, the lower limb of his bow in the other. The Legate himself is leant up against the parade ground wall, he too is clasping something steaming - but he's got hot tea, rather then food and he brings the dinted metal mug upwards, sipping it carefully, eyeing the General's son with a subtly bemused expression as he does so.

"Yeah?" he replies, half laughing and Harley's lip curls upwards.

"Oh aye."

Leaning beside the Legate, General Junior shifts so he can use his fork properly. Around them, it's similar picture - it's breakfast time for the First Cohort and where there is food, there will always be Legionnaires. The majority of them are lined up and waiting, while those who got in first are dotted around, either sat in small groups huddled around fires, or stood about for lack of anywhere else to go. Castle Dour wasn't built for this many soldiers at one time - the barracks are probably full already, if the number of men outside is any indication. As soon as the food runs out though, the majority of them will be gone. As always. It's this scene they like to watch, with neither man saying anything. For Quintillus, this is expected - for Harley, it's typical. When it comes to mealtimes, the General's son is all business, shovelling food into his mouth with a sense of rugged determination.

But the Legate isn't here to make a social call, so he half turns towards the archer, folding his arms.

"What condition is your Contubernium in?" he asks, unintentionally his tone turns out to be rather pointed but Harley doesn't seem to care.

Instead, the younger man just pauses, about to shove a fork-full of eggs into his mouth as he considers this question carefully. He seems to have a lot on his mind. "_Well_..." the archer grunts in his southern Cyrodilic accent, chewing idly as he looks in the vague direction of Optimi Viri Sagittarii's barracks. "We've got one man in the healer's, being treated for severe hypothermia - an' it's eight types a wonderful he 'aint dead, lemme' tell you. But, aside from him, all but the rest of the tent group is pretty much as good an' dandy as you'd expect." shrugging at this, he jerks his fork towards a certain crowd of Legionnaires. "Functional, but morale gone at a lowest point since the that bloody massacre back at Karthwasten."

The Legate frowns "What happened?"

"Remember Fort Amol? Half buried, had a courtyard an' two interior zones?" when the Legate nods hesitantly, Harley scowls at what remains of his breakfast, stabbing it as he does so. "Stormcloaks gone and took the Century stationed there by surprise a few weeks back, cut down thirty or so men before we retreated. So naturally, some moron decides to get us lot get called in, supposes we go picking off as many as we can, you know, parliamentary work. Turns out though, taking pot-shots at a buncha' heavily fortified rebels, a pre-_tty_ bad idea in hindsight that is."

Quintillus hums under his breath. "How many men?"

"Three." the General's son shrugs, chewing forcibly. It might not seem like much, but a standard Contubernium is only eight men strong, which includes it's commanding officer. With three dead and another man in no condition to fight, Harley's unit is down to half strength. That's a situation nobody wants to be in. Especially out here. The fact that said unit _happens_ to be a highly specialised group of marksmen only adds salt to the wounds.

The Legate glances at the younger man, before half sighing and draining the last of his cup. Tea really doesn't taste as good cold.

"So, how do you feel about the Reach?"

"It don't matter what we feel, Sir." Harley grumbles, his fork scratches against the side of his mess tin as he tries to scrape the last bits out. "How're gonna' go take out a full camp with no century?" he then murmurs.

Quintillus half smiles. "I'm not."

The archer snorts in the way of reply. Satisfied that he's got all he can out of his meal, he tosses the fork inside the tin, before wrapping it inside his cloak and shoving it under one arm.

"I've got command over Rikke's First Century." Quintillus explains, something that's quite necessary - Harley's unit; the Optimi Viri Sagittarii, a specialised tent group of marksmen working within the First Cohort's standard Sagittarii, will be under his command for the planned attack. It's not the first time, nor will it probably be the last. When it comes to the Fourth Legion's finest archers, having temporary commanders for operations that require a certain... _professionalism_, is quite common. This will be the fifth time that the Legate has commanded them in the past year, actually.

Understandably, it's this combination of things that makes the General very nervous.

"Uh oh, does Rikke know you're gone playing about with us?" Harley asks, eyebrow raised with that same, odd, half amused half exasperated look on his face. He looks even more like his father when he pulls that expression, if that is even possible. The Legate nods and with that confirmation, General Junior shrugs. "So, when we be moving out?"

"I've given the order - I want everyone ready by twelve hundred."

"Fun times." Harley deadpans, peeling himself from the wall with a respectful parting nod. "Me and the men will be ready and waiting for further orders then, Legate."

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

Moonlight filters weakly through the thin canopy of leaves above his head, leaving the rugged landscape around them thick in shadow as they move forwards. The rocky ground beneath them suddenly drops but he does not slow his pace, instead he drops off the edge, a bone white hand snapping upwards to grab the very edge of the cliffside, leaving him dangling a good twenty something feet upwards. The other three men stay above, looking over the edge as Decanus Harley Tullius scans the land below him. His boots slamming into the rock formation in order to steady himself, Harley jerks his head as he finds what he is looking for. Lowing himself further, he spins himself around so he is facing the cliff, before shimming towards the left. The muscles in his shoulders ache, the echoes of yesterday's wounds resurfacing and with a strangled gasp, he just manages to get far enough before he inevitably gives up, dropping.

Dust and chips of stone bounce upwards when he impacts with the shelf below, striking a rich contrast against the midnight black of the skyline. Slowly but surely, he is joined by the other three members of the Optimi Viri Sagittarii, all in the dark leathers of their uniform with their faces covered. The archer checks over his shoulder and they move across the stretch of rock that juts out from the rest of the surrounding mountainside, double bent, their bows strapped to their backs as they do so.

"Alerio, Domalen - you two stay here now and maintain this position. Come in behind the second group, give support. We'll meet up with you afterwards." Domalen, the only Redguard of the group, lanky and defined, nods at his officer's order and with that, Harley looks across the remainder of the shelf. Slowly, he and the remaining marksman, a short Breton fellow by the name Silvestre make their way across. It's treacherous at points and even slower going, but this route in particular takes them towards the other side of the encampment below - right where they are needed to be. Breath steaming through the wrap around his face as he peers down below, Harley wrenches his head upwards when something snaps beside him. Further along the shelf, the mountainside lowers into something of an opening and a Stormcloak scout moves along it ."Alone?" Harley asks quietly, prompting Silvestre the look upwards, before pushing himself up onto a higher section of mountainside.

Climbing further upwards and moving along, the Breton gives out a soft sigh. "No, two of them."

"You take right."

"On it."

Swiftly, the General's son moves behind the Stormcloak positioned along the shelf, keeping in the rebel's blindspot as he ducks near the man's left hand side. He glances up quickly enough to see Silvestre pulling back his bowstring and with that, suddenly explodes into action, jabbing the Stormcloak before him hard in the shoulder causing the man to spin around violently, Harley doesn't hesitate. Sidestepping away from the man's automatic flail, he slams his fist into the base of the rebels' throat, paralysing the vocal cords and stopping him from screaming. This is then followed by another punch to the liver, the Stormcloaks' thin tunic not doing much to stop the sheer force of Harley's uppercut and with this, the General's son kicks the man's left leg out, bringing his booted foot against the patella. Once he's on the floor, Harley coldcocks him suddenly. No noise, no resistance, no nonsense - the man's out completely and to ensure that he won't be getting up again, Harley draws his shortsword silently with a displeased frown.

Just when he beings to stand upright, there is a thunk from further towards his right and a turn of the head proves his suspicions; both of them are down.

Silvestre climbs down to the small incline towards the Stormcloak he had shot, pulling the arrow out with a small squelch. It proves unusable, so the archer just tosses it away with an underarm throw and a soft huff. "Do you think it'll be a rotational guard?" he asks, moving to stand beside Harley as the Imperial peers down at the encampment below.

"Legate said there gonna' be a good timeframe, we should have long enough - but keep watch, you hear?"

"Got it, boss."

Taking in everything laid out before him from a different angle, Harley crouches down upon his new perch, eyes taking in the marshy trails and with practiced efficiency, registering as many details as he could. Rubbing his fists, he stifles a wince by busying himself, reaching back for the composite bow slung over his shoulder. The wood is worn, well used and he shifts his hand to get a comfortable grip it rattles the shortsword at his hip and Harley hisses in quiet irritation as he draws a thin red arrow from the quiver by his waist.

Nocking it, he stilled.

The wait was on.

Slowly, over the horizon towards the south, grey clouds rolled towards them. It wasn't a cold day - far from it, the recent downpour had brought along an uncomfortable humidity. The only relief comes in the form of a slow, fat breeze and Harley finds himself rubbing against his shoulder to try and remove the wrap pressed against his mouth without having to redraw his bow. Somewhere high above, a brown-winged falcon screeches in its dive earthward, the lethal call reverberating through the rocky cliffs.

It's in this direction that the Stormcloak encampment was positioned. A superior position; nestled against the mountainside with provides a natural barrier against the cold blowing westerly winds, as well as something to keep it hidden from the nearby roads. From his position high up, Harley could make out a good two thirds of the camp itself, with the rest of it hidden behind a cluster of small trees. Flicking his eyes towards what is considered the main 'entrance' of the encampment, two makeshift wooden watchtowers are lit up by lanterns, casting the general area in a dull, flickering yellow glow. This light illuminates six men, all unshaven and haggard beneath grimy steel plate, worn leather armour and Stormcloak blues. Slumped just outside was a dozen or so warhorses, most of then resting near a large hide-top wagon.

Judging by the noise coming from the centre of the encampment, there was a lot more then the Legate first predicted - but, Harley knows how this works. He's listened the Legate and the rest of the uppers' enough times to harbour a bit of understanding, more then enough for this twenty years. As much as he hates the idea of 'orchestrating war', as his father tends to put it, he does understand. The only reason why there are more Stormcloaks here now is because the Legate has pulled his Centuries away. There is simply nothing for the Rebels to fight at the moment.

Harley grimaces when he realises that this will probably make their job easier in the long run.

Further behind him, Silvestre keeps an eye out, moving from two positions slowly, carefully. Time drags on slowly and the other archer is making his fourth trip across when Harley tilts his head, muttering back. "Where are they?"

"Still a fair distance off, almost a league away, but they're running. How's it looking?"

"There's plenty of 'em right up against the back of that sycamore, but the rest're all sleepin'." Harley shifts his shoulders as he replies. It's like this for another hour, staying completely motionless expect for the snap of his gaze as he searches the marshes below. He'd hear the first group of Legionnaires, that he defiantly knows, but Harley has lived through enough, he doesn't let his guard down in an unfamiliar place. It paid well to be wary of the world and hurt little to be overly cautious. The wind picked up briefly, catching up blades of grass, leaves and loose dirt off the cliffs above so that it fell in thin curtains twirling through the air.

The whining breeze nearly masked the first dull thuds of boots against muddied ground, but it wasn't enough. Harley's eyes snapped to the north end of the clearing below.

Silvestre must have noticed too, because he moves over towards Harley's far right, taking up position.

Shifting slowly, the General's son adjusts his position inch by inch until his bow was aimed squarely towards the Stormcloaks' encampment, then, bringing it along a particular ridge.

_If what the Legate said proved true..._

Carefully drawing his bow to it's full extent the Optimi Viri Sagittarius rests the taught bowstring against his left cheek, shifting his jaw so he was biting down against his inner cheek, lost in concentration. Sighting down the arrow as the noises of approaching Legionnaires grow more distinct, he exhales slowly, gaze fixed on the ridge. By the time one of the first Stormcloak scouts down below came into view, small beads of sweat started to gather on his brow. _Gods. If he messed this up. _

Harley doesn't release straight away. Instead he waited, following that particular rebel with the head of his readied arrow, watching the man gently amble across the ground. He's carrying a warhorn over one shoulder, despite the lack of light, Harley can see the glint of a reflection - it can't be a weapon either, because the Stormcloak clearly has a sword at his hip. Some part of him urged him on rapidly, telling him to take the shot before something goes wrong, but the archer forced himself to be patient, counting quickly. He double, triple-checked the numbers below, the distance set between the advancing Legionnaires and the encampment, the leading men, the guards sat at the entrance.

The Stormcloak is moving slower now, craning his neck and hugging a series of flimsy looking fabrics over himself. One hand is resting on the horn and just a Harley takes a breath, holding it for the briefest fraction of a moment, narrowing his eyes, the Stormcloak jerks upwards, startled.

He exhales as he releases the bowstring.

Without so much as checking to see if the arrow hit it's target, because he's not going to lie - it will, Harley slips another arrow free from his quiver. The one he just fired cuts downwards through the warm air, catching the scot squarely in the narrow space between his neck and left shoulder-blade. It tore through his lungs and windpipe, ripping through muscle and finally, the tip lodges itself in the thick arteries just above the man's heart. He died after a couple of agonised seconds, staggering backwards without a sound, just as intended. Eventually the man drops lifeless before the running Legionnaires, the body slumping into the dark marshy terrain. Unnoticed by his fellow rebels.

Silvestre muttered something, his gaze locked on the Stormcloaks standing guard, just in case. Their posture suggested that they weren't aware of anything amiss and there was no panic set in amongst them. His attention diverted, Harley looks back towards the rest of the men steaming forwards. So far, everything was going to plan. He readies his bow for a second time and shifts to stand upright, silently cursing the bruised skin beneath his armour and pulling his bowstring back a little.

And with that, he steps over the edge of the cliff.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

The smell of damp earth wafts around them as they sprint, the air is thick with humid rainstorm and the breeze is gentle. It pushes past his helmet and through each individual strand of hair, not quite cooling but not entirely uncomfortable either, something noteworthy at any rate. The men and woman beside him quicken up the pace. There are seventy of them in total. The other fifty or so Legionnaires are dotted around in their individual Contuberniums, and somewhere, the Legate is among them them. Ready and waiting.

Hadvar doesn't completely understand why he, _they_, of all Centuries, are here. After all, Legate Rikke was in command of the First Cohort - not the Cyrodiilic Legate, not Quintillus. Despite the uncomfortable change in leadership though, Hadvar can't complain, because _he's_ leading them. Taking point for the seventy strong group against a full troop of Stormcloaks is a major honour. Talos... He's not even an _officer_ yet.

Just past the sharp cliff face, the advancing Legionnaires could see the faint glow of camp-fires and lanterns. The darkness around them is debilitating and you can't often tell what you are standing in, but they push forwards at a steady pace regardless - if they tire themselves, they will be unable to fight. One of the men slips with a startled grunt and he's pulled up violently by one of the others close to instantly as to not break formation. Hadvar glances back and once the man is up again and as he turns his head, he sees the silhouette of a Stormcloak. He's close to shouting out, especially when the rebel goes to blow into his war horn, but, rather unexpectedly, he suddenly staggers backwards and falls down a few hundred meters before them. Lifeless. The shaft of a red feathered arrow lodged in his throat.

"Archers." One of the supervising officers beside Hadvar pants. "They call him 'the Tactician' for a reason."

"For posting a few archers?" Hadvar replies, his eyebrow is cocked upwards, but he doubts the officer can see in such darkness.

"The Optimi Viri Sagittarii aren't just _archers_, boy." The officer snickers. "Those folks can pin the wings of a horsefly against a target over a seventy metre radius, likely blindfolded. Quintillus had them cleared in preparation - practically planned it all out around them, he knew there would be weak defences here. Routine patrol however, we best keep up the pace. There's no telling if the Optimi will be watching our backs for much longer."

"And you know all of this, how?" Hadvar asks and the Officer just laughs, offering his large green hand out to shake, very nearly crushing the Nord's hand when he takes it.

"Decanus Durgash; honorary not-quite-babysitter of his mighty Legate-ness, at your service."

Hadvar gives a deep throated pant, pushing his legs further to move on point. The seventy Legionnaires who are to initiate the main attack ford a narrow stream and it's by this point that point the Stormcloaks are well aware that they have company. The men manning the watchtowers suddenly start to shout out, barking alerts to their fellow rebels. Most of them are stumbling out of their tents and some of them are still unarmoured. By the time the first lines of Legionnaires are upon them seven are dead instantly. Flashes of cold steel, and a few more are taken down before the Stormcloaks get their bearings together. Occasionally, Stormcloaks just drop dead suddenly, so rapidly that Hadvar very nearly hesitates. The Decanus was right, those archers _are_ affective. The rebels defend with thick handled axes and war hammers the size of small children. One Legionnaire is to slow, and his head is reduced to mere bloody chunks. At the sight of this, Hadvar moves behind a series of tents, his shield pulled up close and his sword hand clenched tight.

Further along the row of tents, he turns to find himself face to face with a large Stormcloak carrying a broadsword. Hadvar can't see that well in the glowing doom, but the shine of the broadsword and the sheer force that is given off it when it misses his head by mere inches is enough of a reference. Brining his sword spiralling upwards, the Nordic Auxiliary half ducks, half sprawls towards the left when the Stormcloaks follows up with a large swooping motion. It makes his the muscles in his arms cry out, but he manages to counter it with a sudden, wild slash, the first few cutting through the chainmail with relative ease - but then the blade is caught by the broadsword's cross-guard, bringing motion to a relative halt. Rather then getting into a battle of sheer brawn, Hadvar just adjusts his posture and sends out a hefty kick, dislodging the two.

The Stormcloak staggers backwards and Hadvar sees his chance, running forwards and sending his blade down upon the rebel, with that he sends another slash, then another, then another.

He doesn't check to see if the Stormcloak is dead, there are another three waiting for him when he turns back around.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

When he hears the shouting, the Second Cohort's Legate slowly rises his head, bringing one arm upwards.

A pause. Six tense seconds and with a sudden, harsh movement, he signals for them to move forwards.

The Stormcloak camp they have long since targeted, filled with individuals who range from farmers to former mercenaries, was one of the more tediously placed encampments that the Legate had been trying to remove for months. It was causing problems for the troops stationed near Markarth and was making trade in the general region something of a impossibility, located close to the road as it was. From what he can see, it's long since grown, something that hasn't come up in his reports, interestingly enough.

The Legate is going to be having a long hard look at the Legion's list of contacts after this. He doesn't believe in using spies or dirty espionage work, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Someone, somewhere, is feeding him lies and Quintillus doesn't like to be misinformed.

Grimacing Quintillus looks back over towards the camp again, it's mainly circular in shape, despite the cut out where a bunch of trees provide a wall of sorts, and it was located in one of the few flat slopes of land the Reach had to offer. Like most Stormcloak camps, they do not submit to order, so tents are dotted around at random intervals, usually where there is room and it makes it all that treacherous. Despite this level of unfamiliarity however, Quintillus has good faith in the young Auxiliary Hadvar, he wasn't a leader - more of a middle man, but he was reliable. He know how to follow orders.

He's certain he'll get a grilling and a half from Rikke after this, letting an Auxiliary take command of close to a full post-first Century... but to pull this off ambush of without a hitch - the Legate needs a distraction.

That, and he can't say he wouldn't mind. After all, Rikke of all peo-

_No. _

Mentally slapping himself and pointedly ignoring the way his face flushes an interesting shade of pink, Quintillus replaces all _other_ concepts with the reminder that he has seventy screaming Legionnaires throwing themselves against a heavily fortified encampment.

Hiding amongst the plant matter, dead trees and knee high cotton grass, the fifty or so remaining Legionnaires - passively nicknamed 'Surprise Party' by the Legate in good faith - slowly begin to lurch forwards. The scene before them is difficult to distinguish, the dark foggy conditions hindering their vision and despite having one of the superior positions in order to keep an eye on things, Quintillus has to pretty much stay on all fours, kneeling forwards in order to see properly. The sight of the encampment is partly blocked on the far right by a spiky feeling bush and what exposed part of his face gets relentlessly prickled every time he moves to get a better view. When it looks like the majority of the Stormcloaks have advanced to one side, the Legate makes a dull noise of idle satisfaction and he leans backwards. Moving upwards so he's on his knees, the Legate turns somewhat to get a rough estimation of how many men are within shouting distance and then nods curtly at the four Praetorians at his side.

"Antrorsus!" He half shouts, half coughs, because barking with his tenor is fairly difficult on the best days, never mind when his mouth his dry, though they seem to hear him anyway. The landscape around them seems to shuffles upwards in one smooth motion and around, there comes the shouts of the other senior officers - passing commands. As soon as the majority of them are on their feet, they are running downwards, all as one big block of Legionnaires. Chances are that any men who haven't been trained before the Great War won't know what the command actually means, but it's pretty self-explanatory.

It's pretty hard to not get the meaning, when everyone starts bolting down the decline in land screaming choruses of 'For the Empire' in varying degrees of unnecessary volume.

There is dirt on his face, his wounds ache and half of his uniform is caked in mud, but Barnabas feels alive with a certain fire that doesn't suggest stability - but feels right, at the same time. It's uncomfortable to note this, but Quintillus avoids that area of thought by concentrating on the task set before him; steaming forwards in unison with the men, his boots pressing against mangled mud as he runs. Under several inches of solid Imperial plate, his heart is thundering violently despite being forcibly calm outwardly. One tends to become accustomed to the fight after awhile, like an animal, like a beast, in some respects. It doesn't tend to phase him. Not anymore.

Those men who had managed to keep a few paces before him scale over the outer makeshift defences and one of the shorter Legionnaires can't make it high enough, slashing his leg open on the sharp points. The lad attempts to go on with it anyway, but he's off balance when he lands and his left foot sinks about three feet into the mud below him, which makes him topple over straight into Quintillus' first Praetorian. Hard. The inevitable result is the usurping of the other man's own momentum, which makes him turn at the waist and send one arm upwards, ultimately, it results in an unexpected armoured wrist slamming into Quintillus' face.

Thankfully, the Legate has three other men just waiting to act when he needs them, otherwise he highly suspects that his ass would likely object to breaking his fall. One Praetorian behind him presses his shield against the Legate's lower back, while the Praetorian at his front right just _grabs_. It's not that Quintillus' is incapable of getting up when wearing his armour - he is, he has to be - it's just far more difficult in the middle of a bloodbath, with dozens upon dozens of Legionnaires running over you, while you're weighed down in several pounds of mud to boot. Affective as he may be, he won't be able to get up in that scenario. Usually, this is something to call out on, but the Legate doesn't bother, in fact, he's pretty much forgotten about it when he's in the encampment properly. Panting and wiping the stinging mix of sweat, mud and _Eight knows what_ from his eyes, the Legate grimaces. This is getting a lot harder. This was easier a few years ago, but, if there is anything he has come to learn, it's that fatigue is merely something to adapt too.

If he hesitates, he may die. If he misses, he may die. If he forgets, he may die. It's the memorized thrum of sheer battlefield chaos that sweetens any war.

The men who are armed with spears begin to throw them into the tents at odd angles, with the very last waves staying back with bows - a few of them wilding crossbows, to give supporting cover. Splitting his group of Legionnaires into two, Quintillus sends one group towards the relative north and the other, towards the east. He and his Praetorians take a different route due east, the Legate running straight on before taking a harsh left turn. He almost immediately winds up intercepting a collection of around six of them at a dead end made from as of yet intact tents. The first one is within arms reach as soon as he turns the corner and with a surprised snarl, the Legate smashes him in the face with the pommel of his sword, smashing the man's nose with the sheer force of his blow. A lot of his upper face is splattered and he has spin rapidly out the way, wrenching his eyes shut as the warm liquid runs into them. He knows from past experience that it stings, and even when he wipes his face with a gloved hand, his eyes are beginning to water. He doesn't spit however, even if it isn't his own blood. Hardly hygienic, but now is simply not the time.

The rebel he had hit seemed to realise that Quintillus is no standard Legionnaire, which is proven when his shoddy little axe practically falls apart when he tries to slam it into the Legate's chestplate. Realising his error, the Stormcloak staggers backwards with both his hands in the air, but the Legate can't be too sure if it's actually a surrender - he's still got his axe in his hand.

The Legate drives the blade into his throat, ending it quickly so he can concentrate on the others. His four Praetorians form up around him, each taking on a rebel of their choosing, leaving Barnabas with the remaining one.

She's not big, but damn, is she fast - armed with two small axes too. Her hits a quick succession of solid beats and Quintillus has to keep his shield upwards and his body tense to absorb the blows. Dislodged pieces of shield get kicked up with every frenzied hit and the most the Legate can do is merely duck his head out now and again to keep an eye on her moves, her posture, his mind powering onward with splendid thought.

It's easier then it looks for him. Fighting.

Fighting with a sword, knife or axe is nothing more then a blend of calculations, training, health and simple raw skill. To the Legate, his brain quick firing commands as if it was simple human nature, the world is slower. He can, quite literally - see everything. To a simpleton, a hand-twitch may go unnoticed, but to the Legate even the smallest of spasms means something, either be it potential injury or an increase in adrenaline. It's these signs he's come to observe, to notice and such little signs burn around him like liquid fire.

So even through the furious beating against his shield, he realises, gaze fixing on her anew.

_Notable tense in right hand, naturally left handed_ -_ trained to use both, apply attack with high pivoted attack towards the right._ The Stormcloak dodges, spinning towards the left and he applies a small tap towards her right shoulder - _creates anger on a personal level, thus creates opportunities. Inhaling three times normal limit - exhaustion is taking it's toll, anger increases intake. Gaze is tipped to the right, apply second attack further towards the left._ He moves his shield up to catch the flailing motion, sending his blade below against her left hand side. The steel connects with the fabric of her armour, cutting shallowly. _Result; flash wound, next attack needs more force._ He pushes forwards, his shield tucked against his body. When he gets close enough, he pushes his arm out in force, the sudden barge leaves her sprawling and him momentarily disorientated - _apply overhead attack against the exposed line of neck -_ he does so with brute force when he gets his footing and there comes a animalistic scream as it cuts deep into muscle and bone. He wrenches his sword out, pivoting in one foot to check his six.

In summery he expects a deep muscular wound, damage to the spine, major blood loss, jugular damage - Instant death, of which the probability is high.

He nods abruptly, The rest of them are still fighting.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

Hadvar has heard tales of the discipline of the Legion, of the strict need for order, for regimentation. It's one of the main contrasts between them and the Stormcloaks - one is far more martial in appearance, where the other is more of an uncontrollable, but nevertheless unstoppable wave of raw hate and anger. When he first enlisted, he had assumed that such a thing rang true; the battles he had seen where perfectly orchestrated, until now the only botch up had been Helgen.

The ambush wasn't botched, Hadvar only had to see the lines upon lines of the fifty remaining Legionnaires to see that, but this fight was not typical of the Legion. This was dirty tactics, cold bloody revenge at it's peak. An entire First Cohort Century, over one hundred men for an enemy which numbers little over forty.

General Tullius needs the camp wiped out yes, but this much bloodshed is simply overkill. Hadvar doesn't know what happened to Legate Quintillus' last operation, but he clearly wants to be thoroughly on top this time around.

A deadly strain of professionalism, yes - perhaps that's what it is.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

He's not sure where it comes from, but the impact sends him spinning into a low lying ditch of sorts. One that runs around the edge of the camp. It leaves Harley gasping for a few moments, searching for something - he's not quite sure, drifting through a odd form of rapid, dull confusion. In order to reorder his thoughts, the archer just rolls onto his front and presses his forehead against the soft ground below him. A few seconds. Nine eventually and the dullness is replaced, everything seems clearer, so he cautiously glides out over the edge and snakes his way forwards, there are men running by, a lot of them Stormcloaks and Harley creeps along on all fours a bit father, keeping track of his bearings and looking around in an attempt to observe the distribution of soldiers so as to be able to find his way back.

His best bet is to move along the trench, so this is what he does. He's still afraid, very much so, but unlike the countless other times that he's lost his nerve, this seems far more intelligent in the larger scheme of things. Something of a bizarre heightened caution. A few times he finds himself pausing, freezing up stock still and completely motionless, looking for nothing.

The archer has to get out, he knows this, falteringly he continues to work his way along, eventually dropping to his scramble along on his knees when the cover begins to break up. At one point, he looks up to wonder if the sky is lighter against the nearby horizon, but it turns out to be his imagination and he shakes his head. Harley grits his teeth at this, because it's something he shouldn't be thinking about - it's not important. Right now, right here, to crawl in this direction is a chance matter of life or potential death. Swords clash nearby, a series of loud shouts - Nordic accents, armour rattles. The General's son swears and lowers himself further into the trench, which from this angle, turns out to be some form of dried up moat. There is nothing else to do at this point aside from laying low and keeping out the way. He can't look up to check, but it sounds like an interception. Lying huddled almost, Harley brings his legs up towards his chest, swearing anew.

On instinct, he sends his hand back to grab for his bow - but his hands just grasp at air and he deflates. He's lost his bow. Another check shows that his quiver is empty too. He probably lost them when he fell.

When the attacking soldiers get close enough for him to distinguish individual footsteps, Harley falls against the ground and presses his face as deep into the grass and earth as he can without suffocating himself. He doesn't know who is who up there, so he'll pretend to be dead for now. Pressing his helmet against the nape of his neck, the archer keeps his mouth just clear so that he can breathe fresh air. He he stays motionless and somewhere above him, something clanks, stamps and stumbles.

His nerves become taut and frozen and he just waits.

Nothing. They had passed, but were he should be calmed, Harley is suddenly hit with a shattering, unnerving thought. What if someone was to jump in here with him? If it's a Legionnaire, that's all well and good perhaps, but what if it's a Stormcloak? Swiftly, Harley pats himself down and relaxes the tiniest bit when his hand wraps around his dagger, drawing it, he grips it hard and buries himself into the grass again. If anyone jumps in here, Harley will go for him - this, he decides pretty suddenly. It hammers into his forehead in urgent freight; stab him clean through the throat at once, so he can't call out - that is the only way. He'll just be as freighted of Harley as Harley is him. When terror strikes they'l fall onto one another, but Harley will get there first.

This thought process makes him sick. It's all training - get in there first with your little wooden knife - but it isn't, not out here - nothing can compare out here. He's going to stab a man. Or a woman. Someone. They're not going to just spring back up again with the understanding that they're 'dead', they'll lie there in their own blood, a life-force being distinguished. They will die. Properly.

But what else can he do?

That thought makes him savage with fury for reasons he can't quite understand. Perhaps that's it. He doesn't know why he's like this. It's something you can't just ask. He curses and grinds his teeth in the mud; he's raving in frenzy, yet he's completely motionless. In the all and he can really do is just curse and prey.

If his mother was alive, she'd beat his backside for sure.

Harley swears into the mud again.

The sound if an Imperial accent bursts in his ears. If the Legionnaires are on top, if they advance through, he will be saved. He presses his head against the earth again and just listens to the muffled thunder of footsteps, then he rises again to listen to the voices, to the sounds of weapons clashing. He knows for a fact that a lot of the barricades around here are strong and almost undamaged - some of them are so solid, they've survived being blasted by Battlemages time and time again. From the sound of it, the Legionnaires aren't breaking through - they'll have to move back or attack from a different direction.

Sinking back down again, Harley huddles up to the point were he is strained to the uttermost. The banging continues, as does the clanging - but it becomes less audible as time passes. A single cry sounds louder amongst them all. Then a loud series of clattering. They've broken through it seems. How, he doesn't know, but already everything seems to have become somewhat lighter. Then steps begin to hasten over him, towards the far right and everything pulls into a hesitant pause. His eyes are wide, teeth clenched. They're close. Too close.

He's just above to shift when something heavy suddenly stumbles over the edge and into the ditch with him. With a crash, he realises it's a body and it falls over him, slips down and lies across from him. Harley stares, panic stricken, but then their hand moves, fingers clenching.

He doesn't even think about it. No sooner then he saw the movement, Harley quashes all other decisions and just rears towards the Stormcloak like an animal, striking madly, once, twice, thrice - he loses count in the end and with the feeling of a convulsing body, he stops. The man before him is limp and has collapsed. When Harley recovers himself, his hand is sticky and wet, warm too. He doesn't want to look down, but he can't help himself. A glance shows him enough. He gags.

The Stormcloak gurgles, but to Harley it sounds like he's bellowing, that every single gasping breath is like a shuddering cry. A thunder, each and every time - but, Harley realises soon afterwards that it's his heart - it's pounding in his chest, so hard that if feels like it shouldn't be there. He's still making noises though, and despite their faintness, it sends Harley into panic. He really aught to stop his mouth somehow, stuff it with dirt, or perhaps stab him again, just to make him quiet - but he can't. He couldn't.

Staring at the man before him, Harley collapses against the wall of the trench and covers his mouth with his dry hand. He's just stabbed a man. He's done it before - but this is different. How is it different, he doesn't know, but right here, right now, the archer is so suddenly feeble that he can't do anything. He can't lift his hand against him. Not again.

Silence pools over them, making the battle that pools around them like liquid fire seem a world away.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

Decanus Durgash shields himself from a barrage of arrows by collapsing behind what's left of the Stormcloak's wooden barricades with a heavy thud. The rest of the men follow up and there comes a scrambling overhead, not wanting to get trampled by his own side, the Orsimer sends a large beefy green hand out to grab the male closest and pull him down.

It's the Primus Pilus, the commanding Centurion, he notes with some difficulty. He has to wipe down the man's chestplate in order to see the distinguishable marks of rank, for they are completely submerged in mud and blood. In the end, it's the bright red hair that gibes him away. Another wave of Imperials move back and the Decanus just has enough time to duck and shield the Centurion before there comes a shadow from up above and the inevitable sound of the Legate crashing down. He very nearly crushes them both, but the man is alert and he realise his error almost immediately. He manages to just miss them by pushing himself off the top of the barricade, landing heavily on his back further across and rolling over to get onto his knees. He impact must have been hard, because he gasps out, grimacing.

With a half nod, the Legate scrambles towards them double bent. Aside from a pair of new dents in his armour, the dark patches of dark blood crusting to his face, crimson streaking across his forearms and cheastplate - Quintillus is otherwise immaculate. He's not injured, at any rate.

"Legate, sir." Durgash greets.

The Decanus Durgash was one of the Legion rarities. He had originally come to Cyrodiil from Skyrim, from one of those isolated Orismier Strongholds dotted around the landscape. He had enlisted as a Legionnaire as a youngster - just a few years older then Quintillus and to call such a predicament strange is a bit of an understatement. Most Orcs in the Legion are solely heavy armoured troops in their own separate divisions, or, they tend to be armour outfitters and blacksmiths. An actual Legionnaire, serving among Imperials was a very odd route to take - but Durgash knows what he wants in life, he always has done and he's happy where he is. Those in his Contubernium are happier too. Soldiers love a superior who will finish what they start, and Durgash, armed with his trusty war hammer, he finishes most fights before they can even _start_.

Not even Quintillus messes with Durgash and for good reason - best buddies they may be, Durgash is not afraid to give the Legate a good thump. They went right back, growing up in training together back during the Great War. Quite literally, wherever Quintillus goes, it would be a safe bet to assume that Durgash wasn't far behind. Despite the somewhat alarming difference in rank, the odd pair are a prime example of Companionship in Arms.

"Where are your meatsheilds?" Durgash asks and in response the Legate gives him a flat look. The four Praetorians are actually not far behind, they are keeping an eye on their superior through a barricade to their back left. One of them is pissed off - the Legate has been a bit... enthusiastic this time around. The man's helmet is completely decked in. In response, the Orsimer gives off a toothy grin, his large teeth glowing in the semi-light as he shifts backwards and shakes the Pirmus Pilus again, who is either out cold or dead. The Legate checks his pulse, the redhead is indeed alive - which is all the better, if Quintillus had got Rikke's Commanding Centurion killed...

He doesn't want to think about it.

"How many are left?" Quintillus asks, his voice is near to shouting and he ducks behind his shield again when another arrow gets too close for comfort. Eyes narrowing as he slams himself into the barricade, he glances towards the Orc, lip curling upwards.

"A good dozen." Durgash replies, his tone is much harder, it often becomes so when they get down to business. "They are held up on the ridge there, good defence - but the back is pretty exposed."

Quintillus flies upwards, looking over the barricade and inspecting it furiously before slamming himself back against the trampled grass before his head gets shot off. The Orc is right, the renaming Stormcloaks are held up on the ridge to the far left side, mainly semi-circular in shape, rounded. The remaining barricades look strong too. "How many surplus arrows?" he grunts, peering through a breakage in the barricade with an ample amount of difficulty.

"They've been firing at anything that moves for about a minute and a half." Durgash explains, ticking his head in the direction of the Stormcloak controlled yonder. "Chances are, they have a far few."

"Brilliant." The Legate grumbles glancing behind him, the men begin to slowly advance under cover. He searches through them all, frowning. "Where in Oblivion are the Optimi?" looking towards Durgash again, the Decanus looks over towards one side of the encampment.

"Two came in behind us, another one came in beside us, but he vanished somewhere before I could get an identification."

"There are four of them, that was three... Where is the fourth?"

"On the ridge, possibly. I was only made aware of three."

Looking through the men again, Quintillus suddenly jerks upwards onto his knees. "Maintain position." he shouts back as he goes thundering further back, head ducked, shield up and the Praetorians follow behind him quickly. When he sees what he is looking for, the Legate finds cover behind a taller section of barricade and pushes two men out of the way. "Hadvar!" he barks and with shuffling bootsteps, Auxiliary Hadvar stands before the Legate, somewhat perplexed.

"Legate-"

"The Optimi Viri Sagittarii. Where are they?" the Legate cuts him clean off, frowning through the developing crowd of covering Legionnaires.

Hadvar pauses for a moment, thinking. "There are three of them further back, they're holding a tower."

"Three?" the Legate is suddenly very nervous, though outwardly he just seems downright pissed. Hadvar freezes up, glancing towards said tower.

"A Breton, an Imperial and a Redguard... I think."

The Legate looks behind him at the Stormcloak occupied ridge. "Send a man up there, tell them to find their missing man - if they can - then return towards the mountainside. We need to cut those Stormcloaks down. The rest of you move around them, surround them from the east, south and west completely. Keep the archer's further back, I want a light combined arrow barrage on my order. Standard tent group formation."

"Of course, Legate." Hadvar nods, lowering his head in a curt nod. The Legate just hums slightly under his breath, bouncing off in clanking heavy Imperial armour.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

Admittedly, the first time Hadvar had seen the one known as Legate Barnabas Quintillus, he had scared him.

Of course such a thing was kept inside at all costs, because really, what kind of a Nord was stricken fearful by a Imperial Legionnaire, of all things? He had grown up with fear of another man being a Milkdrinker's trait. Regardless however - Hadvar feels as if his nervousness was acceptable, because the first time Hadvar had met the man in person, he had debated if it was all worth it. Being a Legionnaire. Fighting for the Empire.

Usually, Imperials - Cyrodillic born ones - tended to be a proud and often physically appealing group of folk. Well bred ones anyway. Most of them had defined faces, groomed hair and shaven jaws. In fact, Hadvar had often admired the men for it and he was very much a woman's man himself. However, the Legate on the other hand was a completely different kettle of fish. Were a lot of his fellow Imperials were on the shorter side, generally quite stocky and overall generic - the Legate stood far taller and his bones were much harder too.

He's the only Imperial Legionnaire in recent history to have been orders by his superiors to smack Civilians - rather then using any other method of force, because his punches break bones and he's known for killing people outright with just his hands.

With features to harsh to be conventional, it was apparent that age had taken the majority of softness out of his face and at forty three, the strain was starting to show. A veteran now - still serving, but he's one of the old boys, an Old Soldier. He doesn't shave like the young men and when he fights, his hair ends to fall over his forehead into the emptiest of green eyes. Over a gaze that has seen too much, too much to care anymore. He bore the scars to suggest so, like most Old Soldiers who fought in the Great War. Hadvar has only been in a handful of battles, but he has heard the stories from his Elders. He couldn't imagine what they went through, but in all honesty, scars or not - the Legate's silent rage said he'd seen much worse.

And he's got a good memory too.

Yet despite his gruff exterior, the Legate spoke calmly, he kept his voice level, remained indifferently polite. He was angry, but his mannerisms were controlled so much that it was hard to tell and when you did, it was often to late. He's a calculating bastard, if nothing else. He moved economically as possible, always stood upright in attentive perfection, the evidence of years upon years of marching, saluting and standing to attention showing when he addresses those around him.

He makes his men nervous - a lot of them hate him, but they still call him 'Sir' regardless. He commands respect without deserving it.

But none of this, none of it, was why Hadvar was scared of the Legate Quintillus. He's seen smarter men, bigger men, stronger men.

He's scared of the Legate because he's in control. Out there, on the battlefield, he's the biggest threat imaginable - and he doesn't even have to pick up a damn sword. He's scared because after a few seconds of staring, the Legate knows your worth - he can sum you up with so much as a glance, decide what to do with you and he's within the rights to do so.

He's scared, because the Legate is the type of man to win you a war, with any means necessary. He'll kill everything and everyone in the process if he has to. He won't like it, but he'll do it.

He's scared, because if the General is not careful, the entire Fourth Legion is going to be along with him.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

He winds up crawling away into the farthest corner he can find, and he stays there, his eyes glued on him. Harley's hand is grasping the knife, ready and waiting. In his head, he's screaming to himself - that he'll spring at the Stormcloak if he stirs, but what pathetic little scrap of humanity inside him just wont do it. That, and it's pretty obvious that the Stormcloak wont. He can hear gurgling and he can see him indistinctly. He just wants to get away, he can hear the men moving to one side of the encampment and it'll be light soon to boot.

Gritting his teeth as he looks over, he can't see anyone, but arrows fling across the space. One Legionnaire darts out and he's instantly shot down. Harley just sits back down, monumentality crushed. He doesn't know who's firing, but they've got a very good position. He's not yet close enough to the Imperials to get out without being set upon, so he can't go anywhere. He could chance it perhaps, but he's not one hundred percent sure who is who out here. All he can hear is footsteps and in this mud, they all sound the same. The light increases and Harley sits there, burning, waiting for some form of attack - just to see who is where. His knuckles whiten around the handle of his dagger as he clenches them, minute after minute trickling away as he waits, looking forwards as not to turn his head and look at the dark figure collapsed a few feet away. When noises disrupt him, he makes an effort to look past the body in order to distinguish what they are. Still waiting.

At one point, he notices his bloodied hand and a sudden bout of nausea falls over him. Without so much as a second thought, he starts digging out the dirt beneath him and rubs it into the pale skin on his hand, right up until it's completely muddy, when the blood is no longer able to be seen.

The sounds do no not give him any reassurance in the slightest. Likelihood is that his fellows have given up looking for him and are considering him gone. The morning is a dull grey, clear, but very grey and the wind is starting to pick up. Again, the gurgling continues and Harley suddenly breaks, slamming his hands over his ears, but soon he removes them. He won't hear anything else if he does that.

Then the figure across him moves. Shrinking together suddenly, Harley panics, grabs his knife and involuntary looks at the Stormcloak. The image is too powerful, he finds his gaze locked onto it, eyes wide. A blonde haired, blue eyed male lies there. His head has fallen to the left and beneath it is a half bent arm, his head resting limply upon it. The other hand is pressed up against his stomach, fingers grasping at the bloody blue fabric and shattered chain-mail.

_He has to be dead_, Harley thinks. _It's just the body making those sounds, he's dead._

No such luck, the head tries to raise itself, the neck straining and then the groaning becomes louder. The Stormcloak gives up, his forehead sinking back onto his arm and his face is consorted with a degree of physical pain that is downright crushing to have to witness. He's not dead. He's dying, but he's not dead. Not yet. Harley swears, moves onto all fours and drags himself towards the Stormcloak. Movement and he hesitates, supporting himself on his hands. Despite the distance only being a few mere yards, it's a painful, terrible journey. He waits, he creeps a bit further, then he waits again. Eventually he manages to get beside the blonde Nord and the man's eyes jerk open.

The Nord had to have heard him, or he had felt Harley nearby, because he looks at the General's son with a look of pure, no fooling terror. His body lies still, unable to move, but his eyes hold such a powerful expression of freight that for a moment, Harley thinks that the man is just going to summon up the energy to run off.

The gurgling starts to cease, but the Stormcloak continues to stare at him, fear mixing and gathering together, dreadful terror of death - of Harley and from under it the General's son nearly collapses from the weight of the rebel's gaze. Dropping onto his elbows, he raises a hand ever so slightly, looking back over his shoulder. "N-no... just..." he sighs and instantly deflates, the eyes following his every move as he tries to figure out just what the Oblivion he has to do. Then, during the mindless panic, he sees the Stormcloak's hand slip slowly away from his stomach. It's barely a fraction, just a few inches, but this movement sends Harley back into action. He bends forwards, shaking his head and gently picking the man's hand up, putting it back in place. "No... you gotta' keep that there now, you hear?" he has to show that he wants to help, so he continues to bring the hand up until he's clasping the man on the shoulder, a light touch. Eventually, the Stormcloak realises this and he drops his stare, eyelids drooping lower. The tension drops.

Adjusting the Stormcloak's position so he's lay more comfortably, Harley leans against his knees and looks him over; the man's lips are dry, so he pats himself down and grimaces when he realises that he's lost his waterskin too. Though that's not much of a problem, because he realises that he can rip off his sagum and use it in a similar way - he's done it before, and the cloak is in pretty good nick despite everything. The Legion red garment comes free after a few moments of frenzied tugging, ripping off the metal clasp against his shoulder with a snap. The fabric is saturated in lanolin, making it waterproof and after frenzied searching, Harley finds a small pool of water further along the trench. The remains of a long period of rainfall they had awhile back. Ambling down, he spreads it out into the water, pushes it under and scoops it up, the hollow of his hand held under it.

The Stormcloak gulps it down. Harley goes back to fetch some more. It happens three times in a row before the Stormcloak shakes his head, so Harley turns his gaze towards the injures. He manages to pull off the majority of the blue tunic he had draped over himself, but the thick padding underneath was more of a problem. He'll have to remove it in order to bandage him, if it's even possible. When the rebel realises what Harley is trying to do, he resists, but he's to weak to do anything and the General's son shoots him a look. The padded tunic is stuck and he can't figure out if it's fastened, or if it's just one he's pulled over his head.

He goes back for his knife.

When he turns around the Stormcloak stares at him again, that very same cry bleeding out. Harley moves back slowly, offering a hand in peace. "I'm trying to help." He says, clearly - straining to remove as many traces of his accent from his voice as he can, to make it more understandable. He doesn't know if the Nord can even hear him in his state, but he assumes he's got his point across, because he doesn't try to stop him as he cuts the padding away.

The chainmail is a little harder to remove, because it's plastered against the bloody injures. It's cheap stuff, knocked together weakly and the links break when Harley tugs as hard as he can. It must hurt, because the Stormcloak suddenly convulses.

"Sorry-" Harley puts his hand back down on the Nord's shoulder. "Please, keep still."

There are two major stab wounds and a smaller, shallower cut. It had been prevented by the chainmail, luckily, otherwise it would be far worse. He finds his field dressings inside his satchel, alongside a few other necessities and covers them. Blood runs out through and from under it and Harley presses harder, again, another convulse - a groan too this time. Leaning back on his knees, Harley's lips press into a thin line. That's all he can really do.

Now they wait.

Sitting back down, Harley breaks into his rations, but eventually thinks better of it and puts it back. The gurgling starts again some time later and it's at this point that he's starting to feel almost frantic. He never knew how slowly a man could die. He's never really been in a position to know before - he's trained to end it as quickly as possible. He knows the Stormcloak can't be saved; magic probably won't help at this point, Harley's not experienced enough to keep up a healing spell long enough for any worthwhile affect. When the hours drag on, he tries to convince himself that he might just be saved - that the dressings will somehow make him live longer.

In the later hours of the morning, at about six, he realises that this is not the case. The pretence breaks down when the Stormcloak starts groaning again. If he had his shortsword, he would end it, right here, right now. Stab him with a knife though, Harley could not. He's just somehow incapable of doing so.

There is a quiet, raspy pant and Harley jerks his head up. The Stormcloak is looking at him, mouthing words. Crawling towards him, the General's son brings his ear closer to the Nord's mouth. A question, he thinks, but it's only one word.

"Why?"

This gives him a pause. Why? Why what? It's always whys, and never just because. Harley is not too sure, at any rate. It might be that the Stormcloak is asking why Harley is even bothering to help him, or, maybe he's asking a much deeper question; why is the spineless Imperial milkdrinker risking his neck to help a Son of Skyrim?

The General's son gives him the only answer that makes any damn sense in either instance.

"Because you're hurt."

Really, either way, that's all he knows.

He could get into trouble for this. Son of his mighty General Tullius or not; it could be perceived as all sorts. Treason. Dereliction of duty. The Gods only know what he could be written up for, or what the punishment would be. Relegation to inferior service or duties is a popular one, dishonourable discharge too - but that wouldn't happen to him. Quintillus prefers to just let his Centurions beat the ever loving crap out of those who mess up, but disobeying orders? He doesn't know. That's a far worse crime in his eyes, worse then treason. Perhaps Quintillus won't have a say; Rikke might decide on the punishment.

Not that it matters now. He's done it, might as well continue on. How can it be a crime? To help a dying man? The only difference between this Nord and the rest of his tent group is that one is wearing blue and another crimson.

He gets up to fetch some water again.

Time drags on painfully. With every gasp, it feels like his being stabbed in the heart. This Stormcloak has time with him, he has an invisible knife - time and thoughts. Part of Harley wishes he would just _die_, but he doesn't want to wish such a thing upon him. Seems wrong somehow. It's hard to lie here and just stare at him.

"Asgier." the Nord says, faintly, eyes locking on Harley anew. There is a pause. "My name. Asgier. You?"

Harley looks at him for a long time. How should he respond? With his name, with his father's? Should he even respond at all?

"Harley."

It's the most he can do. The Stormcloak might have thirty more years of life if Harley had found his way back. If he had gone, the Stormcloak would have landed in here and he might have lived. He could have escaped and he might have made his way back to his home. Harley knows however, that he won't get anywhere if he thinks that way. If there is one thing he's come to know over the past few years, it's that is it the fate of all of them. If he and his Contubernium had moved further away from Fort Amol, if Luca's head had been six inches to the left, if Erik had managed to run away in time... there is no changing it now. It's over.

At about eight in the morning, two hours later, the Stormcloak is dead.


	4. Barney

**-[|**** Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

"Although victorious, the Imperial armies were in no shape to continue the war. The entire remaining Imperial force was gathered in Cyrodiil, exhausted and decimated by the Battle of the Red Ring. Not a single legion had more than half its soldiers fit for duty. Two legions had been effectively annihilated, not counting the loss of the Eighth during the retreat from the Imperial City the previous year. Titus II knew that there would be no better time to negotiate peace, and late in 4E 175 the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion signed the White-Gold Concordat, ending the Great War."

_\- A Concise Account of the Great War Between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion,  
__By Legate Justianus Quintius._

_-[| SnQ |]-_

|** Part II : **Youth Without Youth |

|** Chapter I : **Barney |

His current profession does not often lend time for idle pondering; but he has always been a thinker. A stoic intelligentsia in a Legionnaire's uniform, sat pondering the little things while encamped in the dark corners of the world. It's a relic of a youth long forgotten, a trait that has become tainted to fit and inhabit amongst this world of soldiers.

When he's not being a soldier however, in those strange, quiet moments where he doesn't quite know what to do with himself, Quintillus often finds himself pondering. Only in these quieter moments - never at any other time, because when the threat of war hangs thick in the air like an upcoming storm, there is little, if any, time for simple reflection. There is only time for the tactics, the cold and often harsh calculations and predictions. He's like a god in times of war, analysing the land, the soldiers and shaping the battlefield before him to suit his needs. A destructive creator.

No. In his current profession, he is the tactician well before he is the thinker. Always. Otherwise the lines of reason start to become blurry and that is not acceptable. He is a soldier, he is a Legionnaire. His Cohort rides on his performance and his name, rides on the Cohort.

Legate of the Second Cohort. The Second Lieutenant. The Tactician. All titles that have to be worked at to keep relevant.

It sounds undoubtedly cruel, but there is simply no time for thinking when there is a war to fight - a war to win. Everything else is relevant. Though, when the time is right and he has none of those things to do, he does. He tires to make sense of it all. Not that there is much to think about, honestly. Take away the soldier, and just who is he?

Regardless.

Recently, he's been thinking about stories.

Not those exaggerated, simple children's tales exactly. Or the ancient carvings found in dusty Nordic tombs, the ones filled with honour and prestige and rightful battle and happy endings. The ones Rikke had insisted on showing him. No. Not at all.

_"All stories with happy endings are lies."_

Since Helgen he's been thinking about his story quite a bit. More importantly, however, he's been thinking about where it starts. Where it begins. Oh, he knows what happens, he knows the content - the middle and chances are he can predict the end. It's the beginning that eludes him.

It always has done.

Everything is supposed to have a beginning. Otherwise, it can't have an end - and nothing lasts forever. He just doesn't know at what exact point his beginning started at. Usually, these things that do not bother him, but recently, with creeping threats, dangerous campaigns and ever increasing age, he feels that he has to know before it gets to late. Quintillus has a vague idea, of course. It could be with the obvious, his birth - the meeting of his parents perhaps. Though he can't help but feel he's looking to far back.

After all he wasn't born the man he is today. He was born Thaddeus Cornelius Quintillus - after his namesake. What came before does not necessarily prove what is to come, or what is now. No. He wasn't that boy, he changed his name in order to refrain from being - but then, he's not the boy he was when he enlisted either. Barney Quintillus lived as a unprepared boy and he died as an unprepared boy. Barnabas Quintillus on the other hand, the wayward Imperial Legionnaire with a genius mind and a headstrong attitude raised from the ashes of those two young men's youth. A soldier, a leader and sometimes, a stone cold killer - the legate who operates on dreadful genius thought. So perhaps that's where it starts. Where his story begins.

In that case.

The story of Barnabas Quintillus begins with a war.

* * *

**-[|**** Show No Quarter ****|]-**

* * *

While he did not openly admit it, Legate Quintillus knew that the majority of the Stormcloak's leaders were... intelligent. Not all Nords are thickheaded - it's a stereotype, one that Quintillus has come to train himself out of using since his deployment in Skyrim. This particular leader had managed to divide his men into two groups along the ridge, with a few stragglers in the middle. Five on the right, six on the left and with the remaining dozen or so moving around freely. They were heavily outnumbered, but they also had the high ground and had access to ranged weapons. None of them were injured, as far as the Legate could tell and they still had ample amounts of arrows for their standard short-bows.

Clearly, said leader was a Great War veteran. Quintillus has seen this tactic before - it's Imperial.

Which, inconveniently, means that Quintillus has to improvise. There are a number of ways that he could solve the issue, with strategies and formations that are familiar, but chances are the Stormcloak commander at the top of that ridge will know what he's up to and therefore, will act accordingly. It's not a problem, per say. The Legate's reputation is hard fought and well earned.

He just doesn't like it. His men depend on him almost completely when he improvises. Legionnaires are trained to follow a set group of strategies and tactics, and it's these select routines that they are familiar with, after all.

Slamming down into the mud beside Durgash, Quintillus eyes the ridge through a crack in the barricades. "What now, Sir?" the Orc asks. During the Legate's breif absence, the Decanus has had the unconscious Primus Pilus taken away it seems.

"Hmm?"

"Legate, Sir. What are your orders?"

Jerking out his plotting thoughts, Quintillus turns towards one of the other Legionnaires, a Tribune - not his, but it doesn't really matter. "Are the men ready?"

The Tribune turns towards him, somewhat startled, spluttering as he talks. He clearly thought that the Legate was unaware of his presence. "The archers are in place. The special ones..."

"The Optimi."

"They've found their missing man - they are awaiting further orders."

The Legate looks away for a moment, eyes narrowed. He grunts and then with a tick of his head, nods at Durgash. "My orders are as follows; Have the Optimi move around towards the back of that ridge, aside the mountain. Send three of the tent groups alongside, they will keep the Stormcloaks distracted while the archers can pick them off, the men positioned towards the west will go up one side, the east doing the same from their side. Push them down towards us and we'll surround them completely. If they are smart, they'll surrender as soon as they realise that they've got nowhere to run."

"And if they don't?"

"We'll need to dig a bigger mass grave."

Durgash slams his fist into his breastplate, his head ticking in acknowledgement. "By your orders."

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

Skip back thirty seven years and Barnabas Quintillus is no different from any other boy his age.

He's nothing other then a child. He has not yet experienced the hardships or war, nor has he come to fully understand the gravity of his future. He has not yet surrendered to the calling of a soldier. He's spoken no oaths aside from his own.

If anything, he's smart. A grinning little genius with a gap between his front teeth and a rather aggravating attribute of not being able to not notice everything. So he's good for schooling, perhaps good enough for the Synod when he gets older and it's here that he becomes dragged under the pathetic patriotic delusions. In a few short years under the tutelage of a sympathizer, Barney is a staunch imperialist. He's headstrong and brave with grand opinions and great expectations of the Empire he's going to serve. Like the others, he's filled with idyllic patriotism and at some point, he concludes that he's pretty damn _fine_ with that.

But he's not the brave Legionnaire he often makes himself up to be.

And that, is proved in his entirety by the Man who shall Remain Nameless.

He's a convict, a stumpy little Breton man who's still bound at the wrists and bleeding at the ankles. From the Imperial Prison, he says and he smashes Barney's head against the tree while he's out playing soldier. He yells a lot and speaks questionable threats with breath that is putrid and disgusting and nothing that Barney has ever faced before.

The Man tells Barney to run home, away from here and to never return and to never, ever speak of this meeting again. And he does, because Barney is scared and he's intimidated and he doesn't yet know how to put the man in a wrist lock and snap his spine. He runs home, leaving his scarf behind and looping around so the Man can't follow him home. Scared he may be, but Barnabas is as much of a learner as he is a thinker and he's learnt a few things from his books on the Imperial Legion. Covering his tracks and making the route difficult is just two of those things. Creating problems. Even at the tender age of eight winters - Barney operates as he would in a battlefield.

Bluffing is another thing he's learned, though not from the Imperial Legion.

His Father comes running down the path towards him when he's finally on the road home. It's dark now, but Barney had to be sure. Had to be sure that the Man would never be able to follow him. "Didn't you 'ear us calling?" He grabs Barney roughly and sends him into his torso hard, hugging him with the strength that only a devoted labour could have. "Barney, you know - You know not to further outwards when you 'ear us calling." The man pulls backwards, holding him by the shoulders and judging by the fact that he is silent, apprehensive - he's waiting for an explanation.

"Well... I. I lost 'me scarf." Barney replies, staring at the ground below him and thinking so hard about pretending to sorry that he almost feels it. "I wanted to find 'me scarf."

His father tilts his chin upwards and sighs between exhausted pants. "Barney old boy, no need to go searching for no scarfs. Scarfs get lost, you have others."

"Sorry for what I' done'."

"No, no. It's all right." His father rumbles, gives him another crushing hug and then turns them both around to face the other way. "Let's get you home."

He doesn't let it show, but Barney knows he doesn't feel sorry for venturing further out. What he did, would most likely protect them from the Man that Shall Remain Nameless.

Eventually he picks up the courage to tell the Kvatch Guards and no more then five days later, the Man who Shall Remain nameless is brought back kicking and screaming. Barney was not to know this, but it was pretty damn obvious. He could read his parents like an open book.

He smirks every time he passes the prison, at any rate.

Perhaps he'd be a good soldier after all.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

He didn't become one on the battlefield, per say, but instead with of all things - an insect.

Red dented eyes stare back at him casually as he sits, panting and exhausted amongst the grass behind the barracks. Over him, the blue sky stretches wide, dotted at spacious intervals are little white clouds. It would be a carefree scene, if it wasn't for the constant rumble of soldiers as they mill about, the steady thrum of a training ground. It's not that loud, in hindsight - the buzz of passing bees drowns it out, but it's a reminder of how difficult life is for him now - and he does not care for it. The grasses sway their tall spears, ticking his upper arms and thirteen year old Barney Quintillus rips of his helmet and lays it beside him. The wind plays with his freshly cut hair, as well as his thoughts. Turning to look at the insect, he regards it for a moment.

He knows what it is, he used to be quite fascinated by the little crawlers in his short and younger days. Though this one does not live up to it's name. It's a disinteresting little speck, a dozen millimetres long and it is coloured neither blue nor shaped like a bottle in any way, shape or form.

Barney watches it with unspoken dispassion, merely grunting when the speck starts to happily slurp up the swear that drips off of his brow. Across the grounds, over the meadow, the shout of his commanding officer grabs his attention. He freezes for a moment, tense, but allows himself to burst into action a few moments later. Blinking and then slamming a hand down to squash it flat, scrambling upwards to join the rest of his tent group.

He doesn't stay there long enough to comprehend it.

But it's his first kill.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

The six month training period had, initially, been much harder then Barney first anticipated.

For for what people might assume to be the usual reasons, but rather, because he had joined up three weeks ago with shining enthusiasm only for it to be completely knocked out of him - because it's not about enthusiasm, it's about orders. He had joined up wanting to be a hero, only to be forced in line with the others - because the Legion doesn't want holier than thou heroes, they want Legionnaires. It wasn't about honor, for the moment, it was about a polish set of uniform. It wasn't about service, for the moment, it was about drill.

Typically, all Legionnaires went thought he same degree of training. Initial muster, arms and weapons drill, formation, marching and tactical exercises. Gymnastics and swimming, learning and mastering combat techniques, long route marches will full battle gear and equipment to get you used to the hardships of the companions. Barney quickly realises just what he's good in and what he isn't and for the moment, it becomes he main focus point of his life. But, nothing was ever going to be easy and it's also about this time that he realises - realises, that he's way out of his depth.

No matter what the other men think, he's only thirteen winters old. He may have developed the traits of adulthood faster then his similarly aged peers, but he's not fast enough, he's not strong enough and he's not fighting hard enough. He's not ready. He can't do what the other men can do and much to his dismay, the Hastiliarius notices. He likes to make an example by regularly using Barney in demonstrations. Demonstrations in what a 'Bad Legionnaire' is. It's because he's not ready that there is nothing he can do about it but struggle through and just damn hope that the man finds someone else to exemplify.

But, nothing was ever going to be easy. Not for him. He comes to this realisation again when he's flat out on his back with a busted nose.

"Useless." The Hastiliarius spits and goes to lecture the other Legionnaires. His head is pounding, his legs feel numb and his nose is killing him, but as hard as it may be however, Barney just pulls himself upwards and moves back in line with the others. He knows he's getting looked at and he doesn't bother to draw attention to himself by looking back. He just stares at some random part in the horizon. "Are we going to make a better effort this time, Tirone Quintillus!?" The Hastiliarus asks, and Barney exhales sharply.

Orders are Orders, and they do have to be obeyed, after all.

"Yes Hastiliarius, Sir."

"Are you going to put up an actual fight this time, Tirone Quintillus!?"

"Yes Hastiliarius, Sir."

It goes like this for a good few minutes, eventually the Hastiliarius gets bored of Barney's deadpan responses and moves away to let them practice. Barney like usual waits until the men have chosen their partners, however this time he is grabbed hard by one of the bigger members of his training group. When he looks upwards properly, he's face to face with the Orsimer, Durgash.

Barney had only seen him a few times, the Orc did not often spend his time alongside the other Legionnaires. The rest of the men try to keep their distance from the large green skinned ones, but for what reason he himself does not know. "Watch what I do, then copy." He grumbles, pushing Barney towards one side and grabbing one of the wooden swords.

"But how am I 'supposed to lear-"

"I see the way you look at us," Durgash snaps, "Watch what we do, copy. Watch, copy."

It's the first time he realises just how sharp his memory is.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

Durgash and Barney become something of a team.

He's not a very good teacher - quite frankly he's downright horrendous - but Durgash manages to drill the basics into Barney most nights. While the rest of the men have their two hours rest before lights out, Durgash drags him to the field behind the barracks and makes him perform his drills in order to build up the necessary strength.

"You are big, but you have the build of a child." He explains at one point, thumping him hard in his ribs. "Make yourself bigger, faster, stronger and coupled with that crazy genius brain of yours and you'll be able to best any opponent."

And he's right.

Barney stands over the Hastiliarius, holding the man's arm at an odd angle. He only has to apply the slightest amount of pressures and he'll snap it like a twig. He doesn't however, but rather lets the man go sprawling onto the floor with a sudden push. As an afterthought, Barney tosses the man's wooden sword beside him on the grass.

Through snot and blood and spit the Hastiliarius glares at him, but Barney doesn't give it any mind. Come what may, he's no longer a boy. He certainly doesn't think like one. Walking over to join the rest of his men in the line, he stands to attention smartly.

No sooner then he begins to observe, he realises that he's got a good head for tactics. It's simple, it's just numbers but with it's own twists and turns of military urgency. Everything he does has a consequence, every plan has it's flaws, but when he takes a step backward and sees it all from a new angle, everything fits into place. He comes to learn what certain patterns mean, what to expect and what to consider. He learns that quite literally, he can stay seven steps ahead if he plans accordingly.

He takes advantage of this ability, and does so shamelessly. It doesn't make him popular, far from it, but it makes him good.

Barney knows Durgash is right when he says that good is better then dead.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

The next three years are barely comprehensible.

Barney ends up with a skull fracture somehow during the March of Thirst and he nearly dies twice from dehydration. He stubbornly keeps on going however, and even Durgash is surprised and perhaps a little disturbed by his apparent refusal to die. By the time they get reinforcements from High Rock, he's no longer lucid and the most he can do is walk in a vaguely straight line. A few of them think him brain dead, but be begs to differ.

He's not going anywhere anytime soon.

They end up with two days to prepare and Barney runs through as many war games as he can. Even if he's doing it alone, he doesn't give up. It hurts, the lot of the time, but since his deployment to Hammerfell, pain has become irrelevant. At one point, Durgash comes ambling into his tent.

"You are going places," He tells him quietly, firmly and sixteen year old Barney glances once in his direction, before standing before the now-shorter Orc. "I want to be right behind you when you do."

"You already where." Barney replies, and Durgash gives him one of those mad, no fooling insane smiles that pretty much forged their never ending friendship there and then.

He doesn't know if its a good thing, having such close friendship when one of you could die at any moment.

But he knows he'll eventually grow to like it, he often does.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

General Decianus has them surround the entrance to Skaven and they take the perusing Thalmor head on. It was bloody and indecisive but he manages to survive.

As he stares at the corpses of what was once his Contubernium, his Decanus watches to. "Unlucky sods," He mutters, slapping Barney on the shoulder as he walks away.

Seventeen year old Barney decides that he hates luck.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

The Battle of the Red Ring, for him, is a downright shitstorm.

Barney is holding his Decanus together, literally as the rest of General Decianus' men fight against the Thalmor's defences. His hands are slicked with blood and he's holding the man's innards to keep them posing as 'outards. He begs, numerous times for the man to just hold on but he can't keep it up. At one point, he's slumped against the corpse and for what seems like ages he is actually crying. He didn't really like the man, the Decanus cultivated fleeting bouts of interest in him, but most of the time they where distinctly disinterested in one another.

He's jerked upwards at some point and he's being shaken violently. There is a lot of shouting and some sensible part of Barney's subconscious kicks his brain into gear.

"-Over!"

Barney brings himself to look at Primus Pilus Tullius and he chokes.

"Quintillus, get out there!" He barks and smashes both his firsts into Barney's breastplate. The Primus Pilus for a few moments looks as if he's about to hit him, but he pauses at the last minute, wrenches the Decanus' helmet from off the corpse and shoves it roughly into his torso.

"Quintillus, get. Out. There."

And with that, he pulls the helmet on and glances in the direction of what resembles the majority fo the battlefield. Tullius goes first, leading his Cohort against the walls of the Imperial City. He doesn't look back at the corpse as he follows.

After all, Orders are Orders and they have to be obeyed.

Decanus Barnabas Quintillus decides soon after, that he hates most things.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

When he returns home, he is told that the service to the Empire is the greatest thing, and Barnabas smiles and nods. It isn't. He knows that the fear of death is even greater inwardly, but why would he want to ruin their view on the world? The view on him? He joined the Imperial Legion when he was thirteen. He's nineteen now, and his eyes have been opened to the point where he can distinguish things clearly. Here they are, gloating and cheering - and their Empire is falling around them. Crumbling. Some of them see it, others don't.

His family are a little angry, at first. He left without telling them. However when he stands exactly three meters away from the front door, standing taller, standing stronger, standing in the armour of a Decanus, they soon forget and come to the terms that he is indeed, alive.

And a hero too, apparently.

He knows that despite the reclaiming of the Imperial City, they have lost the Great War. He knows that joining up with the Legion is a death sentence, but he returns anyway. Five years is it has all taken to completely change him, nothing of his former life remains. He's a Legionnaire now, and he'll have to come to terms with it, as a Legionnaire.

"Your back," The now-General Tullius mutters when Barnabas enters his tent, pausing to stand behind the desk smartly.

"There is no such thing as peacetime." Quintillus replies in the way of explanation, and he holds the General's gaze. Tullius breaks the eye contact first, nodding as he assembles his paperwork. He doesn't need to pry, he knows.

Quintillus had found his place a long time ago.

* * *

**-[| Show No Quarter |]-**

* * *

He does turn out to be a good soldier, but in a completely different way.

He doesn't care for patriotism or doing his duty or anything of the like. While back home, they were giving speeches and preaching about the good fight and the Legionnaire's honour and the greatness of the Legion. Quintillus was giving out orders, spurring his comrades onwards when yet another man dies of either infection or dehydration. He was making decisions between the fight and his fellow soldier's lives, and he was gambling with the image of the Imperial Legion as a whole when he returned and had to fake a smile because gods damn it where they all this stupid?!

It's not stupidity, he knows.

Ignorance is bliss, as they say.

Still, he calls them stupid because diverting his anger and weariness and frustration at the Thalmor only works when they are at the other end of a sword.


End file.
